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mosal  letittixin 


THE  WRITINGS 

OF 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 
Volume  I. 


The  Royal  Edition  of  Anthony  Trollope's  works 
is  limited  to  Twelve  Hundred  and  Fifty 
Copies,  of  which  this  is 


THE  WARDEN 

BY 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 

With  a  Biographical  Criticism  by 
HARRY  THURSTON  PECK,  A.M.,  Ph.D.,  L.H.D. 


5f 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEBBIE  AND  COMPANY 
1900 


Copyright,  1900 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 

All  rights  reserved 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  •  JOHN  WILSON 
AND    SON    •     CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


V  PAGE 

Biographical  Criticism   ix 

Introduction  xxxix 

CHAPTER 

I.  Hiram's  Hospital   i 

II,  The  Barchester  Reformer   lo 

III.  The  Bishop  of  Barchester   25 

IV.  Hiram's  Bedesmen   40 

V.  Dr.  Grantly  Visits  the  Hospital  ....  51 

VI.  The  Warden's  Tea  Party   66 

VII.  The  Jupiter   81 

VIII.  Plumstead  Episcopi  88 

IX.  The  Conference   102 

X.  Tribulation   114 

i;i                XI.  Iphigenia   125 

XII.  Mr.  Bold's  Visit  to  Plumstead   141 

XIII.  The  Warden's  Decision   152 

^             XIV.  Mount  Olympus   161 

^               XV.  Tom  Towers,  Dr.  Anticant,  and  Mr.  Senti- 
ment   173 

XVI.  A  Long  Day  in  London   190 

XVII.  Sir  Abraham  Haphazard   207 

XVIII.  The  Warden  is  very  Obstinate    ....  216 

^             XIX.  The  Warden  Resigns   223 

XX.  Farewell   236 

XXI.  Conclusion   250 


Illustrations 


Portrait  Frontispiece 

"  A  hundred  a  year  !  "  6i 

F.  Brinkman. 

"  I  shall  always  judge  my  father  to  be  right  "...  80 
C.  R.  Grant. 

"  Don't  go,  I  '11  get  my  bonnet  myself  "  140 

F.  Brinkman. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM 


Whatever  else  may  be  said  or  written  concerning 
Anthony  Trollope,  one  thing  at  least  must  be  con- 
ceded, —  that  of  all  the  writers  of  English  fiction  he  is 
the  most  typically  English.  A  famous  passage  written 
by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  in  i860,  while  Trollope's  rep- 
utation was  still  purely  British,  has  been  often  quoted, 
because  it  gives  in  the  fewest  possible  words  the  truest 
estimate  of  Trollope's  literary  work.  Trollope  himself 
in  his  Autobiography  has  cited  it,  and  it  may  well  be 
repeated  here : 

Have  you  ever  read  the  novels  of  Anthony  Trollope  ? 
They  precisely  suit  my  taste,  —  solid  and  substantial,  writ- 
ten on  the  strength  of  beef  and  through  the  inspiration 
of  ale,  and  just  as  real  as  if  some  giant  had  hewn  a  great 
lump  out  of  the  earth  and  put  it  under  a  glass  case,  with 
all  the  inhabitants  going  about  their  daily  business,  and 
not  suspecting  that  they  were  being  made  a  show  of. 
And  these  books  are  just  as  EngHsh  as  a  beefsteak. 
It  needs  an  English  residence  to  make  them  thoroughly 
comprehensible ;  but  still  I  think  that  human  nature 
would  give  them  success  anywhere. 

This  marvellously  apt  and  fehcitously  worded  piece 
of  criticism  contains  two  points  that  are  essential  to  a 
thorough  understanding  of  Anthony  Trollope  and  of 
his  place  in  the  history  of  English  letters.    First  of 
Copyright,  1900,  by  A.  R.  Keller 


X 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


all,  it  makes  clear  the  intensely  national  character  of  his 
realism ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  it  recognises  the  fact 
that  his  art  can  give  us  something  broader  and  deeper 
than  what  is  purely  national,  since  it  is  an  art  which 
finds  its  ultimate  source  in  a  profound  and  comprehen- 
sive knowledge  of  humanity. 

In  order  to  appreciate  and  explain  the  enduring 
excellence  of  Troliope's  finest  work,  one  must  know 
something  of  the  man  himself,  of  his  training,  of  his 
life,  of  his  surroundings,  and  more  especially  of  his  own 
character  and  temperament.  There  is,  indeed,  a  strik- 
ing contrast  to  be  found  between  the  man  as  others 
knew  him  in  the  casual  intercourse  of  daily  Hfe,  and 
the  inner  man  as  he  has  revealed  himself  in  that  curi- 
ously frank,  and  at  times  pathetic,  series  of  confes- 
sions which  was  given  to  the  public  only  after  his  death. 
The  man,  in  external  things,  was  largely  the  creation 
of  his  environment.  He  was  a  bluff,  self-assertive, 
dogmatic,  thoroughly  aggressive  Englishman,  brusque, 
burly,  money-loving,  and  singularly  matter-of-fact,  so 
that  even  among  his  own  countrymen  and  the  men  of 
his  own  set  he  was  never  generally  popular.  The  man 
who  dwelt  within,  however,  and  whom  only  his  most 
cherished  intimates  ever  really  knew,  was  genial,  tender- 
hearted, kindly  and,  more  than  that,  intensely  sensitive 
to  all  the  pain  and  all  the  pathos  of  human  hfe.  Both 
sides  of  his  nature  are  felt  in  what  he  wrote,  and  both 
were  necessary  to  his  greatness  as  an  author.  He  had 
power  and  force ;  he  had  humour  and  a  rich  vein  of 
wholesome  English  fun ;  he  had  insight  into  character 
and  motive  ;  and,  finally,  he  had  a  wide  and  accurate 
first-hand  knowledge  of  men  and  women,  gained  from 
the  circumstances  of  his  various  vocations. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  xi 

Anthony  Trollope  was  born  in  London  in  the  year 
1815.  His  father  was  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  a  former 
Oxford  man,  and,  at  the  time  of  Trollope's  birth,  a 
Chancery  barrister  of  much  ability  in  his  profession,  but 
one  from  whom  fortune  had  withheld  the  successful 
temperament.  Born  to  a  small  fortune,  he  muddled  it 
away ;  trained  to  a  learned  profession,  he  offended  and 
repelled  his  clients  by  his  execrable  temper.  By  the 
time  that  young  Anthony  was  old  enough  to  enter  upon 
the  period  of  his  education,  the  elder  Trollope  had  been 
forced  to  give  up  his  London  home  and  to  take  shelter 
in  a  wretched  farmhouse  on  land  which  is  accurately 
described  for  us  in  Orley  Farm.  The  mother  of  the 
future  novelist  was  a  clever,  jovial,  coarse-grained  wo- 
man, with  a  natural  gift  for  writing  and  with  no  mean 
powers  of  observation,  —  powers  which  are  shown  in 
her  most  unfair  yet  eminently  readable  account  of 
the  domestic  manners  of  the  Americans,  and  in  a 
number  of  novels  which,  though  hastily  and  superfi- 
cially composed,  enjoyed  a  certain  temporary  vogue. 
When  Anthony  was  of  an  age  to  be  sent  to  school,  his 
mother  had  not  yet  begun  to  write,  and  the  fortunes  of 
the  family  were  at  their  lowest  ebb.  He  was  sent  to 
Harrow,  where  he  passed  three  most  unhappy  years, 
and  where  he  left  a  reputation  for  slovenliness  of  per- 
son and  invincible  dulness  of  mind.  This  reputation 
was  not  redeemed  at  a  private  school  to  which  he 
was  transferred,  nor  at  Winchester  College  where  the 
poverty  of  his  parents  made  him  contemptible  not 
only  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellows,  but  in  those  of  his 
masters  also.  Big,  ugly,  and  uncouth,  he  skulked 
about  the  place,  feeling  himself  to  be  despised,  ill- 
dressed,  and  dirty;  and  ere  he  left,  he  had  acquired 


xii  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

a  conviction  that  his  life  was  destined  to  be  an  utter 
failure.  The  story  of  his  next  few  years  forms  painful 
reading,  for  it  is  a  story  of  hopeless  effort,  of  unrelieved 
dejection,  of  indignities,  of  failure.  He  tried  to  study, 
but  for  study  he  appears  to  have  had  no  aptitude. 
He  tried  to  teach,  but  he  had  neither  knowledge  nor 
self-confidence.  He  endeavoured  twice  to  win  a  sizar- 
ship  at  Cambridge,  and  again  at  Oxford,  but  failed  ig- 
nominiously  in  both  attempts ;  so  that  he  gave  up  once 
for  all  the  notion  of  a  university  career.  It  was  at  this 
period  that  a  gleam  of  light  appeared,  almost  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  His  mother's  book  of  travels  in 
America  having  succeeded  with  the  public,  so  that 
within  a  few  months  she  received  from  her  publishers 
the  sum  of  ;^8oo,  the  family's  pecuniary  difficulties 
were  somewhat  lightened ;  yet  none  the  less  there  was 
illness  and  there  were  debts,  and  finally  there  was 
death;  and  in  the  end  it  became  necessary  for  Anthony 
Trollope  to  choose  a  definite  career.  The  singular  offer 
was  made  to  him  of  a  commission  in  an  Austrian  cav- 
alry regiment,  and  he  actually  set  about  the  study  of 
the  German  language  so  that  he  might  be  qualified  for 
this  command ;  but  at  the  end  of  six  weeks  he  had 
another  offer  of  a  very  different  character,  and  imme- 
diately accepted  a  clerkship  in  the  General  Post  Office, 
with  which  branch  of  the  public  service  he  remained 
connected  until  1867,  —  a  period  of  more  than  thirty 
years. 

During  seven  of  these  years  he  held  the  office  of  a 
junior  clerk,  with  an  income  which  began  at  £go  a  year, 
and  slowly  rose  to  ;^i4o.  These  seven  years,  at 
first  sight,  seem  almost  a  continuation  of  what  had 
gone  before.     Trollope  was  always  in  debt,  he  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  xiii 

almost  always  in  trouble,  his  superiors  disapproved  of 
him,  his  companions  led  him  into  card-playing  which 
he  could  ill  afford,  and  into  the  drinking  of  much 
whiskey-and-water,  and  the  consumption  of  much 
tobacco.  He  had  trouble  with  money-lenders,  and 
especially  did  he  have  trouble  with  a  certain  young 
woman,  whose  mother  once  appeared  in  the  middle  of 
the  office,  demanding  of  Trollope  in  a  loud  voice  when 
he  was  going  to  marry  her  daughter.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  another  side  to  this  life  of  his,  which  must 
not  be  overlooked.  He  made  some  friends  who  were 
not  only  an  inspiration  to  him,  but  who  in  their  own 
homes  gave  him  a  saving  ghmpse  of  what  was  good 
and  wholesome.  Partly  through  their  influence  and 
partly  from  that  gradual  development  of  taste  which 
comes  slowly  to  men  like  Trollope,  he  began  to  read ; 
and  even  in  those  days  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  at  some  time  write  a  novel.  Though  he  studied 
little  in  a  systematic  way,  he  taught  himself  to  translate 
both  French  and  Latin,  he  came  to  know  Horace  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  he  eagerly  absorbed  whatever 
was  finest  in  Enghsh  poetry.  His  imagination  had 
now  begun  to  stir  within  him,  and  the  form  in  which  it 
was  first  manifested  is  described  by  him  in  an  interest- 
ing passage  : 

Study  was  not  my  bent,  and  I  could  not  please  myself  by 
being  all  idle.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  I  was  always 
going  about  with  some  castle  in  the  air  firmly  built  within 
my  mind.  For  weeks,  for  months,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
from  year  to  year,  I  would  carry  on  the  same  tale,  binding 
myself  down  to  certain  laws,  to  certain  proportions,  and 
proprieties,  and  unities.  Nothing  impossible  was  ever  in- 
troduced—  nor  even  anything  which  from  outward  cir- 


xiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


cumstances  would  seem  to  be  violently  improbable.  I 
myself  was  of  course  my  own  hero.  Such  is  a  necessity 
of  castle-building.  But  I  never  became  a  king  or  a  duke. 
I  never  was  a  learned  man,  nor  even  a  philosopher.  But 
I  was  a  very  clever  person,  and  beautiful  young  women 
used  to  be  fond  of  me.  .  .  .  There  can,  I  imagine, 
hardly  be  a  more  dangerous  mental  practice  ;  but  I  have 
often  doubted  whether,  had  it  not  been  my  practice,  I 
should  ever  have  written  a  novel.  I  learned  in  this  way 
to  maintain  an  interest  in  a  fictitious  story,  to  dwell  on  a 
work  created  by  my  own  imagination,  and  to  live  in  a 
world  altogether  outside  the  world  of  my  own  material 
life.  In  after  years  I  have  done  the  same,  —  with  this 
difference,  that  I  have  discarded  the  hero  of  my  early 
dreams,  and  have  been  able  to  lay  my  own  identity 
aside. 

These  years,  then,  in  spite  of  all  their  shabbiness  and 
their  Bohemianism,  were  in  reality  the  years  in  which 
the  foundations  of  the  future  novelist  were  laid.  He 
had  come  to  know  at  least  one  side  of  life ;  he  was 
learning  from  the  great  masters  of  literary  style ;  he 
had  begun,  without  knowing  it,  the  study  of  his  tech- 
nique ;  and,  in  a  way,  he  had  begun  also  to  garner  the 
rich  material  out  of  which  he  was  afterwards  destined  to 
construct  so  much  that  is  solid  and  enduring.  Even  to 
his  squalid  experiences,  to  his  dreary  life  in  lodgings, 
to  his  squabbles  with  his  superiors,  and  to  the  trouble 
with  the  young  woman  already  mentioned,  his  readers 
have  good  cause  for  gratitude,  since  upon  these  things 
are  based  some  of  the  most  interesting  episodes  in  the 
story  of  Johnny  Eames,  as  told  in  The  Small  House  at 
Allington. 

In  1 84 1,  came  a  gleam  of  the  success  which  had 
hitherto  appeared  to  be  quite  unattainable.    In  that 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


XV 


year,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  Trollope  accepted  a 
surveyorship  in  connection  with  the  Post  Office  De- 
partment in  Ireland,  which  at  once  removed  him  from 
the  scene  of  all  his  past  unhappiness  and  adversity,  and 
gave  him  a  position  of  comparative  independence,  with 
an  income,  during  the  very  first  year,  of  ^400.  This," 
he  says,  "  was  the  first  good  fortune  of  my  life."  From 
that  time  on,  he  rose  steadily  in  the  postal  service ;  and 
whereas  his  character  in  London  had  been  officially 
regarded  as  extremely  bad,  from  the  day  of  his  transfer 
to  Ireland  he  never  heard  one  word  of  censure,  and 
he  speedily  acquired  the  reputation  of  a  most  efficient 
public  servant.  It  was  in  Ireland  that  Trollope  ac- 
quired his  passion  for  hunting,  which  had  a  most 
important  influence  on  his  literary  work;  and  it  was 
in  Ireland  also  that  he  married.  Finally,  it  was  in 
Ireland  that  he  wrote  his  first  novel,  The  MacDennofs 
of  Ballycloran^  which  was  begun  in  1843  and  finished 
in  1845,  '^o^  published  until  1847.  It  was  an 
utter  failure,  although  Trollope  himself  in  after  life 
declared  that  he  had  never  made  another  plot  so 
good.  The  book  was  never  noticed  in  the  reviews ; 
the  author  never  got  an  accounting  from  his  publisher ; 
and  to  that  publisher  he  never  wrote  a  single  letter 
with  regard  to  it.  Undismayed,  however,  he  tried  a 
second  story  —  again  an  Irish  one  —  and  again  he 
failed ;  for  of  The  Kelly s  and  the  C Kelly s  only  one 
hundred  and  forty  copies  were  sold,  and  the  publisher 
incurred  a  loss  of  something  like  ;^6o.  He  now  tried 
an  historical  novel.  La  Vendee;  and  this  was  perhaps 
the  most  utter  failure  of  them  all.  By  this  time  even 
Trollope  himself,  although  still  sanguine  as  to  the 
merits  of  what  he  had  written,  began  to  disbelieve  in 


Xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

the  possibility  of  success.  After  experimenting  with  a 
comedy  which  was  at  once  condemned  by  a  critic 
to  whom  he  had  submitted  it,  and  after  vainly  offering 
to  prepare  for  a  London  publisher  a  handbook  of 
travel  for  Ireland,  he  turned  to  his  official  duties,  and 
for  several  years  put  forth  no  book. 

These  years  may  well  have  seemed  to  be  just  so 
much  valuable  time  deducted  from  the  novelist's  ht- 
erary  life.  Yet  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  to 
them  and  to  the  experiences  which  they  gave  him, 
Trollope  owed  a  lasting  obligation.  Transferred  from 
Ireland  to  England,  he  was  assigned  to  the  special 
service  of  devising  an  improved  plan  for  the  delivery 
of  letters  in  the  rural  parts  of  England.  In  the  dis- 
charge of  this  duty  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  visit 
personally  almost  every  nook  and  corner  of  Devon- 
shire, Cornwall,  Somersetshire,  Dorsetshire,  Oxfordshire, 
Wiltshire,  Gloucestershire,  Worcestershire,  Hertford- 
shire, Monmouthshire,  and  six  of  the  Welsh  counties, 
besides  the  Channel  Islands.  For  two  years  he  almost 
lived  on  horseback,  going  back  and  forth  continually 
through  this  tract  of  country  which  contains  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  of  Britain. 
He  came  to  know  it  all  by  heart,  the  towns  and  villages, 
the  manors  and  the  granges,  even  the  woods  and 
copses,  the  lanes  and  by-paths.  And  what  was  infi- 
nitely more  important,  he  came  to  know  the  people ; 
for  the  nature  of  his  mission  brought  him  into  personal 
contact  with  men  and  women  of  every  type  and  class. 
He  entered  the  hovel  of  the  peasant,  and  the  mansion 
of  the  nobleman,  the  tradesman's  shop,  the  tap-room  of 
the  village  inn,  the  lonely  farm-house,  the  pretentious 
villa,  the  country  parsonage,  and  the  Bishop's  palace. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  Xvii 

He  chatted  with  the  yokels,  he  made  friends  with 
the  sturdy,  shrewd,  hard-headed  yeomen  and  their 
buxom  wives,  he  held  long  conferences  with  the  vil- 
lage magnates,  he  visited  and  rode  to  hounds  with 
the  country  gentlemen.  He  was,  to  be  sure,  the 
government  official,  but  he  was  also  the  keenly  ana- 
lytical observer  of  human  nature.  He  loved  to  study 
men  and  women,  to  learn  their  ways  of  thinking,  to  un- 
derstand their  interests  and  their  prejudices,  to  fathom 
their  motives,  to  watch  the  play  of  their  activities ;  and 
so  the  two  years  of  this  close  contact  with  the  most 
Enghsh  part  of  England  were  not  two  years  of  wasted 
opportunity  or  of  neglected  effort,  but  rather  they  were 
two  years  of  the  very  richest  gain ;  for  he  was  all  the 
while  unconsciously  absorbing  a  minute  and  sympa- 
thetic knowledge  of  his  countrymen  and  was  acquiring 
that  insight  into  their  character  which  was  to  make  him 
the  most  profoundly  national  of  England's  novelists. 

One  midsummer  evening,  in  the  Close  at  Salisbury, 
as  he  stood  watching  the  mellow  moonlight  shimmer 
on  the  spire  of  the  great  cathedral,  there  came  to  him 
the  first  conception  of  a  novel  that  should  depict  the 
life  of  a  cathedral  city  with  all  the  varied  interests  and 
intrigues  that  gather  about  the  society  of  such  a  place. 
The  general  plan  of  such  a  novel  having  once  possessed 
his  thoughts,  the  individual  details  soon  worked  them- 
selves out  swiftly  and  harmoniously.  The  characters 
began  to  grow  into  life ;  the  scenes  and  incidents 
began  to  stand  out  vividly  before  his  mental  vision ; 
and  at  last,  in  July,  1853,  he  sat  down  with  a  full 
mind  to  begin  the  composition  of  The  Warden, — 
the  first  of  those  remarkable  novels  which,  in  the 

minds  of  all  who  are  familiar  with  her  fiction,  have 

b 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

given  to  England  a  new  county,  Barsetshire,  and  have 
created  for  us  a  whole  group  of  men  and  women  who 
are  as  real  as  any  of  the  men  and  women  whom  we 
meet  and  know  in  actual  life.  The  Warde?t  appeared 
in  1855  ;  ^^"^j  f"^^  fi^st  time,  Trollope  was  made  to 
feel  that  as  a  writer  he  had  within  him  the  elements 
which  go  to  make  success.  T/ie  Warden,  to  be  sure, 
caused  no  great  stir  at  the  time  of  its  appearance ;  but 
its  author  knew  that  at  least  it  had  not  failed.  The 
critics  noticed  it ;  and  Trollope  could  discover  that 
those  about  him  were  aware  that  he  had  written  a 
book.  From  a  commercial  point  of  view,  the  result 
might  have  seemed  almost  as  discouraging  as  was  the 
case  with  his  early  failures.  By  the  end  of  1857,  exactly 
ten  years  from  the  time  when  he  published  his  first 
book,  he  had  received  altogether  from  his  novels  the 
paltry  sum  of  ^55.  As  he  says  himself,  he  could  have 
done  much  better  had  he  spent  the  time  in  breaking 
stone.  He  had,  however,  received  sufficient  recogni- 
tion of  another  kind  to  give  him  heart ;  so  that  he  took 
up  the  writing  of  Barchester  Towers  in  an  optimistic 
spirit,  such  as  before  had  never  animated  him.  The 
writing  of  it,  as  he  tells  us,  was  a  source  of  great 
delight  to  him ;  and  his  pen  moved  swiftly  over  the 
pages  of  that  novel  upon  which,  perhaps,  more  than 
upon  any  other  single  book,  his  fame  must  rest.  It 
carried  on  the  story  of  The  Warden^  but  with  a 
broader  scope,  a  firmer  grasp,  a  finer  fancy,  and  a 
most  remarkable  fertility  in  the  drawing  of  character ; 
while  the  discursiveness  that  is  the  bane  of  several 
of  his  later  novels,  is  wholly  absent  from  this  fascinating 
book.  Barchester  Towers  at  once  made  Trollope  gen- 
erally known ;  and  from  this  time  a  definite  position  in 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  xix 

the  world  of  letters  was  assured  to  him.  He  was  no 
longer  simply  an  official  of  the  General  Post  Office ; 
he  was  Anthony  Trollope, — a  man  whose  name  stood 
for  something  definite  and  admirable.  A  little  while 
before,  promotion  in  the  postal  service  had  more  than 
doubled  his  official  income,  so  that  now  at  last  he  was 
in  a  position  of  ease,  hfted  above  the  minor  worries  of 
practical  life,  and  with  the  path  to  a  successful  literary 
career  made  smooth  before  him. 

Then  came  a  period  not  only  of  success,  but  a  period 
also  in  which  he  was  destined  to  round  out  and  complete 
the  cycle  of  experience  that  was  to  fit  him  not  merely 
for  describing  single  sections  of  society,  particular  locali- 
ties, and  partial  phases  of  existence,  but  for  the  under- 
standing and  the  analysis  of  life  and  of  society  as  a 
whole.  Hitherto  he  had  known  Great  Britain  only ; 
but  now  he  could  indulge  a  taste  for  foreign  travel. 
He  visited  the  Continent  as  a  tourist,  and  in  1858  the 
Government  sent  him  to  Egypt  to  make  a  postal  treaty 
with  the  Pasha.  Somewhat  later,  a  similar  errand  took 
him  to  the  United  States,  to  Cuba,  and  to  Central 
America,  and  he  afterwards  visited  Australia  and  South 
Africa,  and  made  a  voyage  to  Iceland.  Besides  the 
broadening  effects  of  foreign  travel,  he  was  to  make 
acquaintances  and  to  form  lasting  friendships,  whose 
inspiration  was  of  a  value  quite  inestimable.  Chang- 
ing his  home  to  London  which  he  had  left  years 
before  as  a  debt-ridden  junior  clerk  in  the  Post  Office, 
regarded  ahke  by  himself  and  by  others  as  some- 
thing of  a  pariah,  he  now  received  a  cordial  welcome 
to  that  inner  sanctuary  of  London  life  in  which  is 
to  be  found  all  that  is  best  of  Enghsh  intellect  and 
English  bonhomiCy  where  statesmen  and  scholars  and 


XX 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


artists  and  men  of  letters  meet  with  utter  unreserve  to 
give  to  one  another  the  very  choicest  vintage  of  their 
genius.  Among  the  friends  that  Trollope  made  were 
such  poHtical  luminaries  as  the  Earl  of  Derby,  Lord 
Ripon,  Lord  Kimberley,  Sir  William  Vernon- Harcourt, 
and  George  Bentinck ;  the  world  of  letters  was  splen- 
didly represented  by  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  by  George 
Eliot,  Charles  Reade,  Lord  Lytton,  George  Henry 
Lewes,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Wilkie  Collins,  Tom  Taylor, 
Tom  Hughes,  and  Lord  Houghton ;  while  statesman- 
ship and  literature  were  both  combined  in  the  enigmati- 
cally fascinating  person  of  Disraeli.  A  more  brilliant 
set  of  associates  had  not  been  gathered  together 
since  the  days  of  Elizabeth;  and  among  them  Trol- 
lope moved  as  one  who  by  his  own  unaided  genius 
had  made  himself  their  equal. 

Precisely,  then,  as  Trollope's  two  years  on  horseback 
amid  the  English  rural  countries  had  given  him  an  ex- 
traordinary knowledge  of  that  English  Hfe  which  is  racy 
of  the  soil,  so  his  years  in  London  gave  him  no  less  an 
understanding  of  the  tone,  the  ways,  and  the  modes  of 
thought  that  characterize  the  governing  class  of  English- 
men,—  the  class  also  that  establishes  the  intellectual 
standards  of  the  English  race.  Foreign  travel,  too,  was 
for  him  a  salutary  antidote  to  the  narrowness  that  some- 
times afflicts  the  British  mind.  It  is  not,  therefore,  to 
be  wondered  at  if  in  the  splendid  series  of  novels  which 
Trollope  now  composed,  he  drew  a  broad  and  com- 
prehensive and  minutely  accurate  picture  of  England  as 
it  is  and  of  English  men  and  English  women  as  they 
are.  He  trusted  nothing  to  mere  imagination  pure  and 
simple,  nor  was  he  willing  ever  to  evolve  his  facts 
and  scenes  from  out  his  inner  consciousness.  Had 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  Xxi 

he  not  stood  for  Parliament  himself,  he  would  never 
have  given  us  those  extraordinarily  vivid  impressions 
which  are  to  be  found  in  such  of  his  novels  as  have 
to  do  with  the  strife  of  parties.  Had  he  not,  week  after 
week,  sat  in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
Hstening  patiently  to  the  debates  and  noting  all  the 
special  usages  and  customs  of  that  interesting  place,  he 
would  never  have  planned  and  carried  out  the  brilliant 
series  of  novels  which  relate  to  parliamentary  life,  and 
of  which  Phineas  Finn  was  the  precursor.  He  wrote 
only  of  what  he  actually  knew ;  and  when  he  wrote, 
he  wrote  with  a  perfect  knowledge  and  a  wonderful 
power  of  making  it  all  intensely  real,  for  he  himself  in 
his  own  person  had  seen  and  felt  and  understood  it  all. 

The  latter  years  of  Trollope's  life  were  not  eventful, 
save  for  their  literary  performance  and  the  measure  of 
success  which  it  received.  Before  his  death  in  1882, 
he  had  written  and  pubHshed  forty-six  novels,  besides 
leaving  in  manuscript  one  completed  novel  (^An  Old 
Man's  Love)  and  one  unfinished  novel  {The  Land 
Leaguers).  He  had  likewise  published  four  books  of 
travel,  five  volumes  of  stories,  and  four  biographical 
works.  After  his  death  appeared  his  Autobiography , 
a  singularly  frank  and  interesting  revelation  of  his  per- 
sonal experiences  and  of  his  personal  opinions  and 
theories  regarding  his  own  literary  work.  The  narra- 
tive ends  with  the  year  1879,  and  it  is  supplemented 
by  a  few  pages  from  the  pen  of  his  son  Henry  who 
edited  the  book. 

Having  so  far  considered  the  main  features  of  his 
life  and  of  his  environment,  it  remains  for  us  to  esti- 
mate the  character  and  the  value  of  his  achievements 
as  a  writer,  and  to  hazard  also  some  observations  as  to 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

the  place  in  English  literature  which  is  likely  to  be 
assigned  him  by  the  judgment  of  posterity. 

In  the  decade  which  succeeded  Trollope's  death, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  his  reputation  as  a  novelist 
almost  immediately  waned.     From  the  time  of  the 
production  of  Barchestcr  Towers  down  to  the  year 
in  which  he  died,  he  had  remained  steadily  a  favourite 
writer  with  a  very  large  and  discriminating  pubhc.  No 
single  novel  that  he  wrote  ever  produced  what  is  popu- 
larly called  "a  literary  sensation."    That  was  not  the 
day  when  novels  by  writers  known  or  unknown  leaped 
at  once  to  the  sales  that  require  six  places  of  figures 
for  their  computation,  any  more  than  it  was  the  day 
when  novels  were  produced  to  be  read  by  every  one  in 
the  course  of  a  few  short  months,  and  then  to  be  for- 
gotten absolutely.    Yet,  if  Trollope's  success  had  not 
been  spectacular,  nevertheless,  it  had  been  substantial. 
A  new  novel  from  his  pen  was  always  looked  for  with 
keen  interest,  and  its  appearance  was  always  an  event. 
Why,  then,  almost  immediately  after  his  death  did  this 
interest  decline,  and  why  until  within  the  last  year  or 
two  have  his  books  appeared  to  be  gradually  passing 
into  a  species  of  oblivion  ?    If  these  books  have  within 
them,  as  they  most  surely  have,  all  the  essential  quali- 
ties that  give  vitality  to  fiction,  why  should  they  have 
suffered  a  decline  in  the  estimation  of  the  reading 
public?    There  are,  I  think,  two  explanations  to  be 
given  of  this  phenomenon,  and  both  these  explana- 
tions are  quite  consistent  with  a  belief  that  Trollope's 
obscuration  is  but  a  passing  phase,  and  that  even  now 
he  is  beginning  to  take  high  rank  and  an  enduring  place 
among  the  very  greatest  masters  of  modern  fiction. 
First  of  all,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  publication  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


xxiii 


his  Autobiography  did  him  serious  harm,  not  only  with 
the  critics,  but  with  his  own  admirers, — with  all,  indeed, 
who  entertain  and  who  love  to  entertain  what  may  be 
termed  the  inspirational  theory  of  literary  creation.  In 
the  fancy  of  these  persons  an  author  still  retains  some- 
thing of  the  traditional  sanctity  which  clung  to  him 
in  the  days  of  Greece  and  Rome,  when,  garlanded 
with  bays,  he  was  supposed  to  write  under  the  guidance 
of  the  Muses  whom  he  invoked  and  who  were  believed 
to  touch  his  lips  with  the  fire  of  inspiration.  Trollope, 
however,  roughly  and  almost  brutally  rejected  the  no- 
tion that  a  producer  of  literature  is  anything  more  than 
any  other  kind  of  a  producer.  His  chief  motive  for 
writing  is  to  be  found,  not  in  the  love  of  fame  or  in  the 
worship  of  art  for  its  own  sake,  but  in  the  desirability 
of  money.    Read  his  own  words  upon  this  subject : 

I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  many  who  think  that  an 
author  in  his  authorship  should  not  regard  money,  —  nor 
a  painter,  or  sculptor,  or  composer  in  his  art.  I  do  not 
know  that  this  unnatural  self-sacrifice  is  supposed  to  extend 
itself  further.  A  barrister,  a  clergyman,  a  doctor,  an  engi- 
neer, and  even  actors  and  architects,  may  without  disgrace 
follow  the  bent  of  human  nature,  and  endeavour  to  fill  their 
bellies  and  clothe  their  backs  and  also  those  of  their  wives 
and  children,  as  comfortably  as  they  can  by  the  exercise  of 
their  abilities  and  their  crafts.  They  may  be  as  rationally 
realistic  as  may  the  butchers  and  the  bakers ;  but  the  artist 
and  the  author  forget  the  high  glories  of  their  calling  if 
they  condescend  to  make  a  money- return  a  first  object. 
They  who  preach  this  doctrine  will  be  much  offended  by 
my  theory :  and  by  this  book  of  mine,  if  my  theory  and  my 
book  come  beneath  their  notice. 

The  last  sentence  has,  I  think,  been  justified  by  the 
event.    His  book  did  come  beneath  the  notice  of  many 


xxiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


who  preached  the  altruistic  doctrine  of  literary  produc- 
tion, and  they  were  indeed  offended  both  by  his  theory 
and  by  his  book.  Again,  as  a  sort  of  corollary  to  his 
original  proposition,  the  account  that  he  has  given  of 
his  own  methods  of  writing  undoubtedly  did  much  to 
discredit  him  with  the  critics.  As,  in  the  passage  just 
quoted,  he  compared  the  work  of  the  author  and  the 
artist  with  the  work  of  the  butcher  and  the  baker,  so 
was  he  fond  —  undoubtedly  too  fond  —  of  saying  that 
the  methods  of  the  author  need  not  differ  in  kind  from 
the  methods  of  the  tradesman  or  the  artisan.  The  fol- 
lowing passage  is  extremely  characteristic  : 

I  had  long  since  convinced  myself  that  in  such  works 
as  mine  the  great  secret  consisted  in  acknowledging  my- 
self to  be  bound  to  the  rules  of  labour  similar  to  those 
which  an  artisan  or  a  mechanic  is  forced  to  obey.  A 
shoemaker  when  he  has  finished  one  pair  of  shoes  does 
not  sit  down  and  contemplate  his  work  in  idle  satisfaction. 
"  There  is  my  pair  of  shoes  finished  at  last !  What  a  pair 
of  shoes  it  is  !  "  The  shoemaker  who  so  indulged  himself 
would  be  without  wages  half  his  time.  It  is  the  same  with 
a  professional  writer  of  books.  An  author  may,  of  course, 
want  time  to  study  a  new  subject.  He  will  at  any  rate 
assure  himself  that  there  is  some  such  good  reason  why 
he  should  pause.  He  does  pause,  and  will  be  idle  for  a 
month  or  two  while  he  tells  himself  how  beautiful  is  that 
last  pair  of  shoes  which  he  has  finished !  Having  thought 
much  of  all  this,  and  having  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
could  be  really  happy  only  when  I  was  at  work,  I  had 
now  quite  accustomed  myself  to  begin  a  second  pair  as 
soon  as  the  first  was  out  of  my  hands. 

And  again,  this  curious  passage,  written  down  soon 
after  he  had  been  requested  by  the  London  Graphic  to 
write  for  it  a  Christmas  story : 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


XXV 


I  feel,  with  regard  to  literature,  somewhat  as  I  suppose 
an  upholsterer  and  undertaker  feels  when  he  is  called 
upon  to  supply  a  funeral.  He  has  to  supply  it,  however 
distasteful  it  may  be.  It  is  his  business,  and  he  will 
starve  if  he  neglect  it.  So  have  I  felt  that  when  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  novel  was  required,  I  was  bound 
to  produce  it.  Nothing  can  be  more  distasteful  to  me 
than  to  have  to  give  a  relish  of  Christmas  to  what  I  write. 
I  feel  the  humbug  implied  by  the  nature  of  the  order.  .  .  . 
Alas !  at  this  very  moment  I  have  one  to  write,  which  I 
have  promised  to  supply  within  three  weeks  of  this  time,  — 
the  picture-makers  always  require  a  long  interval,  —  as  to 
which  I  have  in  vain  been  cudgelling  my  brain  for  the  last 
month.  I  can't  send  away  the  order  to  another  shop,  but 
I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  ever  get  the  coffin  made. 

If  this  was  Trollope's  theory,  he  certainly  carried  it 
out  in  actual  practice.  He  was  an  official  of  the  Post 
Office  as  well  as  a  novelist,  and  in  consequence  he 
could  not  always  pick  and  choose  the  times  and  places 
for  his  hterary  labour.  The  inspirational  theory,  there- 
fore, was  impossible  to  him  ;  for  the  moments  of  his 
inspiration  would  frequently  be  sure  to  clash  with  the 
moments  of  his  opportunity.  Hence,  quite  early  in  his 
hterary  career,  he  resolved  that  every  day  he  would 
devote  three  hours  to  composition,  and  that  these 
three  hours  should  be  taken  whenever  they  could, 
and  from  whatever  time  was  at  his  disposal,  no  matter 
where  he  chanced  to  be.  This  rule  he  never  broke. 
If  he  were  at  home,  he  sat  before  his  desk  and  wrote. 
If  he  were  on  a  railway  journey,  he  carried  with  him  a 
writing-pad,  and  in  the  railway  carriage  pursued  his 
task,  regardless  of  his  surroundings  until  his  daily  stint 
had  been  completed.  If  he  were  making  a  sea-voyage, 
he  had  a  little  table  screwed  to  the  side  of  his  state- 


xxvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


room ;  and  upon  it,  even  in  the  stormiest  of  weather, 
when  the  ship  was  pitching  and  rocking,  and  when  he 
himself  was  suffering  from  the  direst  qualms  of  sea-sick- 
ness he  wrote  each  day  until  he  had  produced  three 
thousand  words,  —  for  he  exacted  of  himself  at  least  two 
hundred  and  fifty  words  each  quarter  of  an  hour, — 
and  with  his  watch  before  him  he  would  labour  with  all 
the  exactness  and  the  precision  of  an  accountant. 

Now  all  these  things  —  his  liking  for  money,  his 
bourgeois  views  about  the  hterary  profession,  and  the 
stohdly  methodical  way  in  which,  apparently,  he  did  his 
work  —  seemed  very  shocking  to  very  many  persons. 
The  critics  all  cried  out  in  reprobation,'  and  thousands 
of  those  who  had  read  his  books  with  intense  delight 
grew  speedily  ashamed  of  their  enthusiasm  when  they 
learned  just  how  these  books  had  been  composed. 
They  experienced  a  sort  of  disillusionment.  They 
suddenly  perceived  all  sorts  of  defects  of  which  be- 
fore they  had  been  utterly  unconscious.  It  became 
the  fashion  to  speak  of  Trollope  as  a  mechanical  and 
uninspired  writer,  and,  being  mechanical  and  unin- 
spired, as  one  whose  writing  must  of  necessity  be  dull. 
In  course  of  time  this  judgment  passed  into  an  ac- 
cepted formula,  and  I  have  often  heard  it  repeated  by 
inteUigent  men  and  women  who,  upon  being  ques- 
tioned, were  forced  reluctantly  to  admit  that  they  had 
never  read  a  single  line  of  Trollope  in  their  lives. 
They  were  simply  parroting  the  dicta  of  Mr.  Henry 
James  and  other  critics  of  the  Transcendental  School. 
They  did  not  see,  and  the  critics  did  not  see,  that  it 
makes  no  difference  how  or  when  or  by  whom  or  with 
what  theory  a  book  is  written ;  since  it  can  be  rightly 
judged  only  by  what  it  holds  within  itself    If  it  be 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


xxvii 


good,  if  it  be  true  to  life,  if  it  can  make  you  laugh  with 
its  humour,  and  thrill  with  its  passion,  if  it  can  make 
your  heart  beat  faster  by  its  power,  and  your  lip  quiver 
and  your  eyes  grow  dim  by  its  pathos,  —  why  should 
you  listen  to  the  arid  litde  judgments  of  some  paltry 
critic,  equipped  with  a  yardstick  and  a  set  of  rules  rather 
than  with  a  heart  to  feel  and  with  a  brain  to  under- 
stand? There  are  those  who  can  see  none  of  the 
splendour  of  Byron's  poetry,  because  Byron  was  him- 
self a  mocker  and  a  rake.  There  are  some  who  will 
not  take  the  trouble  to  become  familiar  with  the  exqui- 
site beauty  of  Newman's  prose,  because  they  think  of 
him  as  a  recreant  to  the  faith  in  which  he  was  born. 
Philistines  such  as  these  may  scoff  at  Trollope  and  'may 
say  that  he  was  uninspired  and  mechanical  because  he 
wrote  three  hours  a  day  with  his  watch  before  him ; 
but  no  man  who  reads  his  books  and  feels  their  magic 
and  their  elemental  vigour  and  virility  can  deny  that 
Anthony  Trollope  was,  in  his  own  sphere,  just  as  great  as 
Thackeray,  and  (with  certain  definite  limitations)  almost 
the  peer  of  Balzac. 

It  is  not,  however,  necessary  to  defend  him  only  in 
this  way.  The  impartial  critic  should  recall  not  merely 
all  those  passages  where  Trollope  has  flouted  at  "in- 
spiration "  in  its  hackneyed  sense,  and  where  he  has 
half  defiantly  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  a  conscious 
exaggeration,  crammed  down  the  critic's  throat  a  bluntly 
phrased  repudiation  of  pure  art.  There  is  another  side 
to  this  ;  for  there  is  something  else  that  Trollope  tells  us 
which  should  modify  the  judgment  of  even  the  most 
captious  and  fastidious.  A  few  sentences  that  he  has 
himself  written  about  Thackeray  will  give  a  clue  to 
what  I  have  in  mind; 


XXViii  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

Late  in  Thackeray's  life,  —  he  never  was  an  old  man, 
but  toward  the  end  of  his  career,  —  he  failed  in  his  power 
of  charming,  because  he  allowed  his  mind  to  become  idle. 
In  the  plots  which  he  conceived,  and  in  the  language 
which  he  used,  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  perceptible 
change ;  but  in  The  Virginians  and  in  Philip  the  reader 
is  introduced  to  no  character  with  which  he  makes  a  close 
and  undying  acquaintance.  And  this,  I  have  no  doubt,  is 
so  because  Thackeray  himself  had  no  such  intimacy.  His 
mind  had  come  to  be  weary  of  that  fictitious  life  which 
is  always  demanding  the  labour  of  new  creation ;  and  he 
troubled  himself  with  his  two  Virginians  and  his  Philip 
only  when  he  was  seated  at  his  desk. 

This  criticism  by  him  of  a  brother  author  throws  a 
flood  of  light  on  what  has  been  so  carelessly  described 
as  Trollope's  mechanical  process  of  composition.  Did 
Trollope  trouble  himself  with  his  creations  only  when 
he  was  seated  at  his  desk  ?  If  so,  then  it  may  be  that 
he  deserves  the  reproach  of  being  a  mere  literary 
artisan.  Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  untrue. 
His  hours  of  real  composition  were  not  the  hours  when 
he  was  writing,  but  when  he  was  alone,  untroubled  by 
society,  free  from  all  other  cares  and  other  duties,  and 
able  to  pass  from  the  world  of  fact  which  lay  about  him, 
and  to  live  in  that  other  no  less  actual  world  which  he 
himself  created.  It  was  then  that  he  wrought  out  his 
plots,  and  called  into  existence  the  men  and  women 
whom  the  world  has  come  to  know,  and  when  (though 
he  himself  rejected  the  idea)  true  inspiration  came  to 
him.  I  have  quoted  the  words  on  which  his  critics 
have  condemned  him.  Let  me  now  quote  the  words 
which  make  that  condemnation  utterly  unjust : 

At  such  times  I  have  been  able  to  imbue  myself  thor- 
oughly with  the  characters  I  have  had  in  hand.    I  have 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  Xxix 

wandered  alone  among  the  rocks  and  woods,  crying  at 
their  grief,  laughing  at  their  absurdities,  and  thoroughly 
enjoying  their  joy.  I  have  been  impregnated  with  my 
own  creations  till  it  has  been  my  only  excitement  to  sit 
with  the  pen  in  my  hand,  and  drive  my  team  before  me  at 
as  quick  a  pace  as  I  could  make  them  travel. 

Are  these  the  words  and  is  this  the  feeling  of  a  liter- 
ary artisan  ?  Could  the  most  brilliant  writer  whom  the 
world  has  ever  known  bring  to  our  minds  more  vividly 
the  creative  spirit,  the  throbbing  brain,  and  the  living 
soul  of  the  inspired  artist?  And,  as  a  last  quotation, 
let  me  cite  these  sentences  which  Trollope  wrote  down 
very  soberly  in  summing  up  his  thoroughly  matured 
opinions  of  his  own  profession : 

The  novelist  has  other  aims  than  the  elucidation  of  his 
plot.  He  desires  to  make  his  readers  so  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  his  characters  that  the  creatures  of  his 
brain  should  be  to  them  speaking,  moving,  living,  human 
creatures.  This  he  can  never  do  unless  he  know  those 
fictitious  personages  himself ;  and  he  can  never  know 
them  unless  he  can  live  with  them  in  the  full  reality  of 
estabhshed  intimacy.  They  must  be  with  him  as  he  lies 
down  to  sleep,  and  as  he  wakens  from  his  dreams.  He 
must  learn  to  hate  them  and  to  love  them.  He  must 
argue  with  them,  forgive  them,  and  even  submit  to  them. 
He  must  know  of  them  whether  they  be  cold-blooded  or 
passionate,  whether  true  or  false,  and  how  far  true,  and 
how  far  false.  The  depth  and  the  breadth,  and  the  nar- 
rowness and  the  shallowness  of  each  should  be  clear  to 
him. 

It  is  so  that  I  have  lived  with  my  characters,  and  thence 
has  come  whatever  success  I  have  obtained.  There  is  a 
gallery  of  them,  and  of  all  in  that  gallery  I  may  say  that  I 
know  the  tone  of  the  voice,  and  the  colour  of  the  hair, 


XXX 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


every  flame  of  the  eye,  and  the  very  clothes  they  wear. 
Of  each  man  I  could  assert  whether  he  would  have  said 
these  or  the  other  words ;  of  every  woman,  whether  she 
would  then  have  smiled  or  so  have  frowned. 

These  passages  and  others  like  them  make  it  clear 
enough  that  TroUope's  three  hours  a  day  of  writing  and 
the  imposition  upon  himself  of  a  stated  task  are  to  be 
viewed  quite  differently  from  the  way  in  which  the 
critics  view  them.  These  three  hours  were  not  hours 
of  composition  in  the  real  sense  of  that  word.  When 
he  came  to  his  desk  he  did  not  come  to  it  with  an 
empty  mind  and  with  a  feeling  of  uncertainty  as  to  what 
he  was  about  to  do.  He  came  to  it  with  the  work  of  com- 
position and  creation  already  quite  accomplished,  with 
everything  thought  out,  and  with  a  mind,  as  he  himself 
described  it,  impregnated  with  his  own  creations;  so 
that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  take  his  pen  in  hand  and 
transcribe  with  the  utmost  rapidity  the  scenes,  the  inci- 
dents, the  dialogue,  and  the  reflections  with  which  his 
active  brain  was  teeming.  His  three  hours  of  daily 
work,  then,  were  hours  of  clerical  work  alone.  The 
real  labour  had  been  already  done. 

Therefore  it  is  unfair  and  almost  dishonest  to  take  a 
part  of  what  he  has  revealed  to  us  regarding  his  own 
method,  and  to  ignore  the  other  part  which  is  necessary 
to  a  perfect  understanding  of  it  all.  Trollope  was  not 
uninspired ;  he  was  not  mechanical ;  his  novels  were 
not  turned  out  as  a  cobbler  turns  out  shoes,  nor  as 
an  undertaker  turns  out  coffins ;  but  they  were  called 
into  being  as  every  great  artistic  creation  is  called  into 
being,  with  pain  and  travail  and  joy  and  exultation, 
by  a  mind  aroused  to  put  forth  all  its  powers,  an 
imagination  splendidly  aflame,  and  a  soul  pierced 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  XXXi 

through  and  through  by  poignant  birth-pangs.  And 
the  novels  themselves  show  all  of  this  quite  plainly 
to  one  who  reads  them  with  a  sentient  mind.  If 
Trollope,  with  a  certain  healthy  contempt  for  the  di- 
lettante and  the  amateur,  has  sometimes  seemed  to 
hold  all  art  in  slight  esteem,  and  to  blurt  out  bluntly 
that  there  is  no  art,  and  that  he  wrote  his  novels  in 
the  spirit  of  a  man  of  business,  then  there  is  always  at 
hand  the  reply  which  a  critic  lately  made  to  Mr.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  in  answer  to  a  brilliant  gibe  of  his  directed 
against  Art.  The  critic  in  question  took  down  a  vol- 
ume of  Mr.  Kipling's  poems  and,  turning  to  that  won- 
derful ballad  entitled  "  Mandalay  "  —  a  ballad  curiously 
blended  of  human  passion  and  oriental  colour  and 
haunting  music  —  he  simply  said  "  But,  Mr.  Kipling, 
this  is  Art." 

I  have  said,  however,  that  for  the  temporary  decline 
of  general  interest  in  Trollope's  work,  there  is  another 
reason,  and  it  is  one  that  has  reference  to  the  literary 
history  of  our  own  times.  It  was  near  the  date  of 
Trollope's  death  that  the  English  reading  world  began 
to  feel  the  influence  of  the  so-called  naturalistic  school 
of  French  fiction.  In  1881,  after  the  appearance  in 
English  of  the  two  novels  {VAssommoir  and  Nana) 
that  are  the  most  famous  if  not  the  best  of  all  that 
he  has  written,  Emile  Zola  first  became  known  and  was 
first  seriously  read  in  England  and  the  United  States. 
The  almost  epic  power  of  this  man  took  a  strong  hold 
upon  every  class  of  readers,  while  his  grossness  and 
brutality,  though  at  first  they  horrified,  at  length  came 
to  possess  a  morbid  fascination  for  those  to  whom 
the  combination  of  extraordinary  genius  and  unbridled 
license  had  been  hitherto  unknown.    The  more  whole- 


XXxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

some  and  self-restrained  realism  of  native  English  v/riters 
like  Thackeray  and  Trollope  seemed  for  the  moment  to 
be  pale  and  cold  beside  the  panorama  unrolled  before 
the  eyes  by  Zola,  in  which  all  that  was  morally  hideous 
and  physically  loathsome  was  exploited  with  the  utmost 
frankness,  and  in  which  every  form  of  vice  stood  out  in 
bold  relief  against  a  background  glaring  with  infernal 
fires.  Then  began  and  then  continued  for  a  time  the 
cult  of  the  Unmentionable.  American  and  EngHsh 
readers  and  students  of  literature  went  through  a 
strange  experience,  from  which  only  during  the  past 
three  years  have  they  seemed  to  be  gradually  recov- 
ering. The  Gallic  influence  was  paramount.  French 
writers,  hitherto  but  little  read  outside  of  France,  were 
hastily  translated.  We  went  back  to  Stendhal  and  the 
Goncourt  brothers.  We  read  and  reread  Balzac  and 
Flaubert.  We  hailed  the  rise  of  Maupassant  in  his 
cynicism,  of  Mendes  in  his  monstrosity,  and  of  Huys- 
mans  in  his  degeneracy.  With  a  few,  all  this  was 
an  initiation  into  new  theories  of  fiction ;  with  the 
many,  it  was  a  baptism  of  filth.  The  fashion  spread, 
and  at  last  in  English  we  had  rivals  of  the  French, 
—  George  Moore  and  Gissing  and,  lotigo  iniervalio, 
Saltus  and  Flovverdew  and  Frank  Norris,  —  while  Eng- 
lish playwrights  arose  to  present  the  same  distorted 
views  of  life  in  a  dramatic  form.  This  naturalistic 
movement  ran  a  rapid  course.  It  was  a  strange  in- 
fection, a  furious  fever,  and  it  has  left  lasting  traces 
upon  our  intellectual  life ;  but  as  an  infection  and 
a  fever  it  has  passed  away,  and  men  and  women 
have  reverted  once  again  to  healthier  tastes  and  saner 
literary  pleasures, — to  an  appreciation  of  the  Romantic 
and  a  preference  for  that  truer  realism  which  views  life 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  XXxiii 

as  a  whole  and  does  not  find  its  normal  phases  in  a 
gutter. 

Of  this  truer  realism  there  have  been  just  three  great 
masters,  and  these  are  Balzac,  Thackeray,  and  TroUope. 
All  three  of  them  are  free  alike  from  any  taint  of  Natural- 
ism and  from  the  paltriness  of  Trivialism.  By  universal 
consent,  Balzac  stands  pre-eminent  among  the  three, 
not  because  he  alone  saw  all  of  life,  but  because 
he  alone  both  saw  it  and  had  the  courage  and  the 
power  to  set  it  forth.  The  real  supremacy  of  Bal- 
zac is  not  to  be  found  in  his  mastery  of  detail,  in 
the  completeness  and  perfection  of  any  single  book  of 
his,  or  in  the  unique  fidelity  to  life  of  any  single  char- 
acter or  single  set  of  characters  portrayed  for  us.  No 
one  of  the  many  novels  which  are  hnked  together  to 
form  his  wonderful  Comedie  JTumaifie^  —  no  one  of 
these,  I  say,  not  even  Eugenie  Grandet,  or  Fere  Goriot, 
can,  taken  by  itself,  be  favourably  compared  with  Pen- 
dennis  or  The  New  comes  or  even  with  Vanity  Fair. 
He  has  drawn  no  characters  more  absolutely  true  to 
life  and  more  enduring  in  the  minds  of  men  than 
Becky  Sharp  and  Lord  Steyne  and  Major  Pendennis 
and  Harry  Foker  and  Colonel  Newcome.  Balzac's 
supremacy  really  lies  in  the  vastness  and  fulness  of 
his  achievement,  in  the  immensity  of  his  canvas,  in 
his  Titanism.  He  at  times  works  roughly,  but  he 
is  not  cutting  delicate  little  figures  upon  a  gem  ;  he 
is  rather  hewing  monumental  sculptures  out  of  a  gigan- 
tic crag.  To  know  him  as  he  is  we  must  know  every 
line  he  wrote ;  for  only  in  his  entirety  can  he  be  really 
known  at  all.  His  conspicuous  merit  is  not  that  he  has 
given  us  an  accurate  and  artistic  picture  of  this  or  that 
or  the  other  section  of  human  life,  but  that  with  an 


xxxiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 


almost  superhuman  sweep  of  vision  he  has  revealed 
to  us  in  one  immortal  picture  all  life  in  its  com- 
pleteness. Thackeray  has  not  done  this.  He  doubt- 
less saw  all  life,  but  he  never  drew  it  all.  He  had 
not  the  audacity ;  he  had  not  the  energy  and  the  tre- 
mendous vitality,  both  of  body  and  mind,  for  such  a 
task  ;  and  he  was  hampered  by  the  conventions  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  tradition  which  told  him  that  there  is  much  in 
human  life  from  which  not  even  transcendent  genius 
may  draw  aside  the  veil.  Thackeray's  work,  therefore, 
is  the  work  of  one  who  laboured  under  limitations, 
—  limitations  that  were  partly  self-imposed,  —  and  the 
result  is  a  wonderful  reproduction  of  his  own  sphere 
of  life  and  of  all  that  entered  into  it,  with  glimpses 
also,  though  they  are  only  glimpses,  of  the  half-world 
that  lay  beyond.  His  artistry  is  perfect ;  his  knowledge 
is  full ;  his  perspective  is  accurate ;  his  feeling  for  his 
subject  is  perhaps  even  more  true  than  that  of  Balzac. 
Yet  blot  out  the  city  of  London  from  the  world  of  his 
creation,  and  how  little  is  there  left !  With  him,  in  his 
finer  work,  all  interests  centre  there. 

When  we  come  to  consider  the  relative  place  of 
Anthony  Trollope  in  the  realistic  triad,  we  must  bear 
in  mind  precisely  the  same  standards  that  have  been 
appHed  to  Balzac  and  to  Thackeray.  No  single  book 
of  Trollope's,  not  even  Barchester  Towers  or  He  Knew 
He  was  Right  —  can  be  favourably  compared  with  any 
of  the  three  great  Thackerayan  novels.  Like  Balzac, 
Trollope  is  inferior  to  Thackeray  in  execution  and  in 
mastery  of  detail,  though  quite  his  equal  in  his  insight 
into  character ;  for  Mrs.  Proudie  and  the  Bishop  of 
Barchester  and  Lady  Glencora  and  Lizzie  Eustace  and 
Mr.  Chaffanbrass  have  long  since  won  a  place  among  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  XXXV 


immortals.  But,  like  Balzac,  he  reveals  to  us  a  larger 
world  than  Thackeray's,  and  always  with  a  perfect 
comprehension  of  it.  It  is  a  Briton's  world  as  Balzac's 
is  a  Frenchman's ;  but  it  is  not,  as  is  Thackeray's,  the 
world  of  a  mere  Londoner.  Trollope  gives  us  London 
life  too,  and  much  more  fully  than  Thackeray  has  done, 
for  he  shows  us  in  a  series  of  brilliant  novels  the 
very  penetralia  of  the  political  world  as  Thackeray 
never  could  have  done  because  he  lacked  the  knowl- 
edge. Trollope  performed  the  task  with  such  success 
as  to  extort  a  wondering  applause  from  the  men  who 
lived  the  life  that  was  lived  by  the  Mildmays  and 
Daubeneys,  the  De  Terriers  and  Monks,  and  all  the 
smaller  fry  whose  ambitions  and  intrigues  are  inex- 
tricably tangled  with  the  work  of  government.  But 
Trollope  has  done  more  than  this.  He  has  given  us 
also  rural  England  and  provincial  England,  —  an  Eng- 
land with  which  London  has  no  close  association. 
Thackeray  never  created  for  us  a  cathedral  city  like 
Barchester,  much  less  an  entire  county  like  Barsetshire. 
We  cannot  go  with  him  among  the  yeomanry,  among 
the  boors,  among  the  country  gentlemen,  among  the 
small  tradesmen,  among  the  local  lawyers  and  pro- 
vincial clergy,  and  get,  not  merely  passing  glimpses 
of  the  life  they  lead,  but  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
it  in  all  its  phases.  Again,  Trollope  has  shown  us 
Ireland,  which  he  knew  as  few  Englishmen  have  ever 
known  it,  in  all  its  humour  and  pathos  and  squalour 
and  improvidence.  And  in  this,  as  in  all  he  wrote, 
there  is  everywhere,  as  Hawthorne  said,  the  human 
nature  that  must  make  these  novels  universally  suc- 
cessful in  their  appeal  to  human  interests  and  human 
sympathies. 


XXXVi  BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM. 

Take,  then,  these  three  great  writers  and  compare 
them.  Balzac,  first  of  all,  the  master  of  his  craft,  the 
artist  and  the  psychologue,  who  in  drawing  all  of  France 
drew  also,  broadly  speaking,  all  humanity.  Then  Trol- 
lope,  far  more  limited  than  Balzac,  because  there  were 
depths  that  he  could  not  sound,  as  there  were  unclean 
haunts  that  he  refused  to  penetrate,  yet  still  one  who  re- 
vealed his  country  and  his  countrymen  more  fully  and 
more  truly  than  any  other  Englishman  has  ever  done. 
And  finally,  there  is  Thackeray,  superior  in  some  things 
to  Balzac  and  to  Trollope,  but  working  in  a  field  so  nar- 
row, and  producing  what  is  comparatively  so  very  little, 
as  to  deserve  but  the  third  place  when  regarded  from 
the  standpoint  of  his  actual  achievement. 

There  are  many  things  that  make  a  parallel  between 
Balzac  and  Anthony  Trollope  very  interesting.  Each 
passed  through  a  long  apprenticeship  to  poverty ;  each 
gave  much  thought  to  money  and  to  material  things ; 
each  laboured  with  an  energy  that  was  astonishing ; 
each  was  the  most  prolific  writer  among  his  own  con- 
temporaries ;  each  knew  his  country  and  his  coun- 
trymen of  every  class  and  type  and  station ;  each 
drew  them  as  they  were  and  are,  and  with  a  thorough 
understanding  of  humanity  at  large ;  and  each  stands 
forth  as  the  novelist  of  a  nation.  Trollope  has  written 
nothing  that  can  be  matched  with  Balzac  at  his  best ; 
yet  he  has  never  descended  to  the  inanity  of  Balzac 
at  his  worst.  If  he  could  not  have  penned  a  book  so 
sombre  and  so  terrible  as  Cousine  Betie,  neither  could 
he  have  brought  himself  to  perpetrate  so  wildly  meaning- 
less a  screed  as  Seraphita.  If  his  pages  do  not  sting 
with  epigram,  they  glow  with  humour.  If  he  shuts  his 
eyes  to  what  is  foul  and  morbid  and  revolting,  he  sees 


BIOGRAPHICAL  CRITICISM.  XXXVii 


more  clearly  still  that  which  is  good  and  true  and 
tender.  In  a  word,  if  he  lacks  something  of  the 
brilliancy  and  something  of  the  hardness  and  some- 
thing of  the  unpitying  logic  of  the  Frenchman,  all  this 
but  makes  him  the  more  typically  EngHsh,  and  gives  us 
one  more  reason  for  believing  that,  in  the  end,  when 
the  swift  years  shall  have  swept  away  the  cobweb  repu- 
tations which  confuse  men's  judgments  for  the  moment, 
the  name  of  Anthony  TroUope  will  rightfully  be  rec- 
ognized as  first  upon  the  roll  of  England's  realistic 
novelists. 


INTRODUCTION. 


These  tales  were  written  by  the  Author,  not  one  im- 
mediately after  another, — not  intended  to  be  in  any 
sequence  one  to  another  except  in  regard  to  the  two 
first, — with  an  intention  rather  that  there  should  be 
no  such  sequence,  but  that  the  stories  should  go  forth 
to  the  public  as  being  in  all  respects  separate,  the 
sequence  being  only  in  the  Author's  mind.  I,  the 
Author,  had  formed  for  myself  so  complete  a  picture 
of  the  locality,  had  acquired  so  accurate  a  knowledge 
of  the  cathedral  town  and  the  county  in  which  I  had 
placed  the  scene,  and  had  become  by  a  long-con- 
tinued mental  dwelling  in  it  so  intimate  with  sundry 
of  its  inhabitants,  that  to  go  back  to  it  and  write 
about  it  again  and  again  have  been  one  of  the  delights 
of  my  hfe.  But  I  had  taught  myself  to  beheve  that 
few  novels  written  in  continuation,  one  of  another, 
had  been  successful.  Even  Scott,  even  Thackeray, 
had  failed  to  renew  a  great  interest.  Fielding  and 
Dickens  never  ventured  the  attempt.  Therefore,  when 
Dr.  Thorne,  the  third  of  the  present  series,  was  sent 
into  the  world,  it  was  put  forth  almost  with  a  hope 
that  the  locahty  might  not  be  recognised.  I  hardly 
dared  to  do  more  than  allude  to  a  few  of  my  old 


xl 


INTRODUCTION. 


characters.  Mrs.  Proudie  is  barely  introduced,  though 
some  of  the  scenes  are  laid  in  the  city  over  which  she 
reigned. 

And  in  Framley  Parsonage,  and  in  the  Last  Chron- 
icle, though  I  had  become  bolder  in  going  back  to  the 
society  of  my  old  friends,  I  had  looked  altogether  for 
fresh  plots  and  new  interests  in  order  that  no  intend- 
ing reader  might  be  deterred  by  the  necessity  of  going 
back  to  learn  what  had  occurred  before. 

But  now,  when  these  are  all  old  stories, — not  per- 
haps as  yet  quite  forgotten  by  the  readers  of  the  day, 
and  to  my  memory  fresh  as  when  they  were  written, — 
I  have  a  not  unnatural  desire  to  see  them  together,  so 
that  my  records  of  a  little  bit  of  England  which  I  have 
myself  created  may  be  brought  into  one  set,  and  that 
some  possible  future  reader  may  be  enabled  to  study 
in  a  complete  form  the 


CHRONICLES  OF  BARSETSHIRE. 


THE  WARDEN 


CHAPTER  I. 
hiram's  hospital. 

The  Rev.  Septimus  Harding  was,  a  few  years  since, 
a  beneficed  clergyman  residing  in  the  cathedral  town 

of  ;  let  us  call  it  Barchester.    Were  we  to  name 

Wells  or  Salisbury,  Exeter,  Hereford,  or  Gloucester,  it 
might  be  presumed  that  something  personal  was  in- 
tended ;  and  as  this  tale  will  refer  mainly  to  the  cathe- 
dral dignitaries  of  the  town  in  question,  we  are  anxious 
that  no  personality  may  be  suspected.  Let  us  pre- 
sume that  Barchester  is  a  quiet  town  in  the  West  of 
England,  more  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its  cathe- 
dral and  the  antiquity  of  its  monuments  than  for  any 
commercial  prosperity ;  that  the  west  end  of  Barchester 
is  the  cathedral  close,  and  that  the  aristocracy  of  Bar- 
chester are  the  bishop,  dean,  and  canons,  with  their 
respective  wives  and  daughters. 

Early  in  hfe  Mr.  Harding  found  himself  located  at 
Barchester.  A  fine  voice  and  a  taste  for  sacred  music 
had  decided  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  exercise 
his  calling,  and  for  many  years  he  performed  the  easy 
but  not  highly  paid  duties  of  a  minor  canon.    At  the 


2 


THE  WARDEN. 


age  of  forty  a  small  living  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the 
town  increased  both  his  work  and  his  income,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifty  he  became  precentor  of  the  cathedral. 

Mr.  Harding  had  married  early  in  life,  and  was  the 
father  of  two  daughters.  The  eldest,  Susan,  was  bom 
soon  after  his  marriage;  the  other,  Eleanor,  not  till 
ten  years  later.  At  the  time  at  which  we  introduce 
him  to  our  readers  he  was  living  as  precentor  at  Bar- 
chester  with  his  youngest  daughter,  then  twenty-four 
years  of  age ;  having  been  many  years  a  widower,  and 
having  married  his  eldest  daughter  to  a  son  of  the 
bishop,  a  very  short  time  before  his  installation  to  the 
office  of  precentor. 

Scandal  at  Barchester  affirmed  that  had  it  not  been 
for  the  beauty  of  his  daughter,  Mr.  Harding  would 
have  remained  a  minor  canon;  but  here  probably 
Scandal  lied,  as  she  so  often  does ;  for  even  as  a  minor 
canon  no  one  had  been  more  popular  among  his  rev- 
erend brethren  in  the  close  than  Mr.  Harding;  and 
Scandal,  before  she  had  reprobated  Mr.  Harding  for 
being  made  precentor  by  his  friend  the  bishop,  had 
loudly  blamed  the  bishop  for  having  so  long  omitted 
to  do  something  for  his  friend  Mr.  Harding.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  Susan  Harding,  some  twelve  years  since, 
had  married  the  Rev.  Dr.  Theophilus  Grantly,  son  of 
the  bishop,  archdeacon  of  Barchester,  and  rector  of 
Plumstead  Episcopi,  and  her  father  became,  a  few 
months  later,  precentor  of  Barchester  Cathedral,  that 
office  being,  as  is  not  usual,  in  the  bishop's  gift. 

Now  there  are  peculiar  circumstances  connected 
with  the  precentorship  which  must  be  explained.  In 
the  year  1434  there  died  at  Barchester  one  John 
Hiram,  who  had  made  money  in  the  town  as  a  wool- 


HIRAM'S  HOSPITAL. 


3 


stapler,  and  in  his  will  he  left  the  house  in  which  he 
died  and  certain  meadows  and  closes  near  the  town, 
still  called  Hiram's  Butts,  and  Hiram's  Patch,  for  the 
support  of  twelve  superannuated  wool-carders,  all  of 
whom  should  have  been  born  and  bred  and  spent 
their  days  in  Barchester;  he  also  appointed  that  an 
alms-house  should  be  built  for  their  abode,  with  a  fit- 
ting residence  for  a  warden,  which  warden  was  also  to 
receive  a  certain  sum  annually  out  of  the  rents  of  the 
said  butts  and  patches.  He,  moreover,  willed,  having 
had  a  soul  alive  to  harmony,  that  the  precentor  of 
the  cathedral  should  have  the  option  of  being  also 
warden  of  the  alms-houses,  if  the  bishop  in  each  case 
approved. 

From  that  day  to  this  the  charity  has  gone  on  and 
prospered — at  least  the  charity  had  gone  on,  and  the 
estates  had  prospered.  Wool-carding  in  Barchester 
there  was  no  longer  any;  so  the  bishop,  dean,  and 
warden,  who  took  it  in  turn  to  put  in  the  old  men, 
generally  appointed  some  hangers-on  of  their  own ; 
worn-out  gardeners,  decrepit  grave-diggers,  or  octo- 
genarian sextons,  who  thankfully  received  a  comforta- 
ble lodging  and  one  shilling  and  fourpence  a  day,  such 
being  the  stipend  to  which,  under  the  will  of  John 
Hiram,  they  were  declared  to  be  entitled.  Formerly, 
indeed, — that  is,  till  within  some  fifty  years  of  the 
present  time, — they  received  but  sixpence  a  day,  and 
their  breakfast  and  dinner  was  found  them  at  a  com- 
mon table  by  the  warden,  such  an  arrangement  being 
in  stricter  conformity  with  the  absolute  wording  of 
old  Hiram's  will :  but  this  was  thought  to  be  incon- 
venient, and  to  suit  the  tastes  of  neither  warden  nor 
bedesmen,  and  the  daily  one  shilling  and  fourpence 


4 


THE  WARDEN. 


was  substituted  with  the  common  consent  of  all  parties, 
including  the  bishop  and  the  corporation  of  Barchester. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  Hiram's  twelve  old  men 
when  Mr.  Harding  was  appointed  warden ;  but  if  they 
may  be  considered  to  have  been  well-to-do  in  the 
world  according  to  their  condition,  the  happy  warden 
was  much  more  so.  The  patches  and  butts  which, 
in  John  Hiram's  time,  produced  hay  or  fed  cows, 
were  now  covered  with  rows  of  houses ;  the  value  of 
the  property  had  gradually  increased  from  year  to 
year  and  century  to  century,  and  was  now  presumed 
by  those  who  knew  anything  about  it  to  bring  in  a 
very  nice  income ;  and  by  some  who  knew  nothing 
about  it,  to  have  increased  to  an  almost  fabulous  ex- 
tent. 

The  property  was  farmed  by  a  gentleman  in  Bar- 
chester, who  also  acted  as  the  bishop's  steward, — a 
man  whose  father  and  grandfather  had  been  stewards 
to  the  bishops  of  Barchester,  and  farmers  of  John 
Hiram's  estate.  The  Chadwicks  had  earned  a  good 
name  in  Barchester;  they  had  lived  respected  by 
bishops,  deans,  canons,  and  precentors ;  they  had  been 
buried  in  the  precincts  of  the  cathedral;  they  had 
never  been  known  as  griping,  hard  men,  but  had 
always  lived  comfortably,  maintained  a  good  house, 
and  held  a  high  position  in  Barchester  society.  The 
present  Mr.  Chadwick  was  a  worthy  scion  of  a  worthy 
stock,  and  the  tenants  living  on  the  butts  and  patches, 
as  well  as  those  on  the  wide  episcopal  domains  of  the 
see,  were  well  pleased  to  have  to  do  with  so  worthy 
and  liberal  a  steward. 

For  many,  many  years, — records  hardly  tell  how 
many,  probably  from  the  time  when  Hiram's  wishes 


Hiram's  hospital. 


5 


had  been  first  fully  carried  out, — the  proceeds  of  the 
estate  had  been  paid  by  the  steward  or  farmer  to  the 
warden,  and  by  him  divided  among  the  bedesmen ; 
after  which  division  he  paid  himself  such  sums  as  be- 
came his  due.  Times  had  been  when  the  poor  warden 
got  nothing  but  his  bare  house,  for  the  patches  had 
been  subject  to  floods,  and  the  land  of  Barchester 
butts  was  said  to  be  unproductive ;  and  in  these  hard 
times  the  warden  was  hardly  able  to  make  out  the 
daily  dole  for  his  twelve  dependents.  But  by  degrees 
things  mended ;  the  patches  were  drained,  and  cottages 
began  to  rise  upon  the  butts,  and  the  wardens,  with 
fairness  enough,  repaid  themselves  for  the  evil  days 
gone  by.  In  bad  times  the  poor  men  had  had  their 
due,  and  therefore  in  good  times  they  could  expect  no 
more.  In  this  manner  the  income  of  the  warden  had 
increased ;  the  picturesque  house  attached  to  the  hos- 
pital had  been  enlarged  and  adorned,  and  the  office 
had  become  one  of  the  most  coveted  of  the  snug  cler- 
ical sinecures  attached  to  our  church.  It  was  now 
wholly  in  the  bishop's  gift,  and  though  the  dean  and 
chapter,  in  former  days,  made  a  stand  on  the  subject, 
they  had  thought  it  more  conducive  to  their  honour  to 
have  a  rich  precentor  appointed  by  the  bishop,  than 
a  poor  one  appointed  by  themselves.  The  stipend  of 
the  precentor  of  Barchester  was  eighty  pounds  a  year. 
The  income  arising  from  the  wardenship  of  the  hospital 
was  eight  hundred,  besides  the  value  of  the  house. 

Murmurs,  very  slight  murmurs,  had  been  heard  in 
Barchester, — few  indeed,  and  far  between, — that  the 
proceeds  of  John  Hiram's  property  had  not  been  fairly 
divided :  but  they  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  of 
such  a  nature  as  to  have  caused  uneasiness  to  any  one. 


6 


THE  WARDEN. 


Still  the  thing  had  been  whispered,  and  Mr.  Harding 
had  heard  it.  Such  was  his  character  in  Barchester, 
so  universal  was  his  popularity,  that  the  very  fact  of 
his  appointment  would  have  quieted  louder  whispers 
than  those  which  had  been  heard ;  but  Mr.  Harding 
was  an  open-handed,  just-minded  man,  and  feeling 
that  there  might  be  truth  in  what  had  been  said,  he 
had,  on  his  instalment,  declared  his  intention  of  adding 
twopence  a  day  to  each  man's  pittance,  making  a  sum 
of  sixty-two  pounds  eleven  shillings  and  fourpence, 
which  he  was  to  pay  out  of  his  own  pocket.  In 
doing  so,  however,  he  distinctly  and  repeatedly  ob- 
served  to  the  men,  that  though  he  promised  for  him- 
self, he  could  not  promise  for  his  successors,  and  that 
the  extra  twopence  could  only  be  looked  on  as  a  gift 
from  himself,  and  not  from  the  trust.  The  bedesmen, 
however,  were  most  of  them  older  than  Mr.  Harding, 
and  were  quite  satisfied  with  the  security  on  which 
their  extra  income  was  based. 

This  munificence  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Harding  had 
not  been  unopposed.  Mr.  Chadwick  had  mildly  but 
seriously  dissuaded  him  from  it ;  and  his  strong-minded 
son-in-law,  the  archdeacon,  the  man  of  whom  alone 
Mr.  Harding  stood  in  awe,  had  urgently,  nay,  vehe- 
mently, opposed  so  impolitic  a  concession.  But  the 
warden  had  made  known  his  intention  to  the  hospital 
before  the  archdeacon  had  been  able  to  interfere,  and 
the  deed  was  done. 

Hiram's  Hospital,  as  the  retreat  is  called,  is  a  pict- 
uresque building  enough,  and  shows  the  correct  taste 
with  which  the  ecclesiastical  architects  of  those  days 
were  imbued.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  little  river, 
which  flows  nearly  round  the  cathedral  close,  being  on 


Hiram's  hospital. 


7 


the  side  furthest  from  the  town.  The  London  road 
crosses  the  river  by  a  pretty  one-arched  bridge,  and, 
looking  from  this  bridge,  the  stranger  will  see  the 
windows  of  the  old  men's  rooms,  each  pair  of  win- 
dows separated  by  a  small  buttress.  A  broad  gravel 
walk  runs  between  the  building  and  the  river,  which 
is  always  trim  and  cared  for;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
walk,  under  the  parapet  of  the  approach  to  the  bridge, 
is  a  large  and  well-worn  seat,  on  which,  in  mild 
weather,  three  or  four  of  Hiram's  bedesmen  are  sure 
to  be  seen  seated.  Beyond  this  row  of  buttresses,  and 
further  from  the  bridge,  and  also  further  from  the 
water  which  here  suddenly  bends,  are  the  pretty  oriel 
windows  of  Mr.  Harding's  house,  and  his  well-mown 
lawn.  The  entrance  to  the  hospital  is  from  the  Lon- 
don road,  and  is  made  through  a  ponderous  gateway 
under  a  heavy  stone  arch,  unnecessary,  one  would  sup- 
pose, at  any  time,  for  the  protection  of  twelve  old 
men,  but  greatly  conducive  to  the  good  appearance 
of  Hiram's  charity.  On  passing  through  this  portal, 
never  closed  to  any  one  from  six  a.m.  till  ten  p.m., 
and  never  open  afterwards,  except  on  application  to 
a  huge,  intricately  hung  mediaeval  bell,  the  handle  of 
which  no  uninitiated  intruder  can  possibly  find,  the  six 
doors  of  the  old  men's  abodes  are  seen,  and  beyond 
them  is  a  slight  iron  screen,  through  which  the  more 
happy  portion  of  the  Barchester  elite  pass  into  the 
Elysium  of  Mr,  Harding's  dwelling. 

Mr.  Harding  is  a  small  man,  now  verging  on  sixty 
years,  but  bearing  few  of  the  signs  of  age ;  his  hair  is 
rather  grizzled  than  grey ;  his  eye  is  very  mild,  but 
clear  and  bright,  though  the  double  glasses  which  are 
held  swinging  from  his  hand,  unless  when  fixed  upon 


8 


THE  WARDEN. 


his  nose,  show  that  time  has  told  upon  his  sight ;  his 
hands  are  delicately  white,  and  both  hands  and  feet 
are  small ;  he  always  wears  a  black  frock-coat,  black 
knee-breeches,  and  black  gaiters,  and  somewhat  scan- 
dalises some  of  his  more  hyperclerical  brethren  by  a 
black  neck-handkerchief. 

Mr.  Harding's  warmest  admirers  cannot  say  that  he 
was  ever  an  industrious  man ;  the  circumstances  of  his 
life  have  not  called  on  him  to  be  so ;  and  yet  he  can 
hardly  be  called  an  idler.  Since  his  appointment  to 
his  precentorship,  he  has  pubHshed,  with  all  possible 
additions  of  vellum,  typography,  and  gilding,  a  collec- 
tion of  our  ancient  church  music,  with  some  correct 
dissertations  on  Purcell,  Crotch,  and  Nares.  He  has 
greatly  improved  the  choir  of  Barchester,  which,  under 
his  dominion,  now  rivals  that  of  any  cathedral  in  Eng- 
land. He  has  taken  something  more  than  his  fair 
share  in  the  cathedral  services,  and  has  played  the 
violoncello  daily  to  such  audiences  as  he  could  collect, 
or,  faute  de  mieux^  to  no  audience  at  all. 

We  must  mention  one  other  peculiarity  of  Mr. 
Harding.  As  we  have  before  stated  he  has  an  income 
of  eight  hundred  a  year,  and  has  no  family  but  his  one 
daughter ;  and  yet  he  is  never  quite  at  ease  in  money 
matters.  The  vellum  and  gilding  of  "Harding's 
Church  Music  "  cost  more  than  any  one  knows,  except 
the  author,  the  publisher,  and  the  Rev.  Theophilus 
Grantly,  who  allows  none  of  his  father-in-law's  extrava- 
gances to  escape  him.  Then  he  is  generous  to  his 
daughter,  for  whose  service  he  keeps  a  small  carriage 
and  pair  of  ponies.  He  is,  indeed,  generous  to  all, 
but  especially  to  the  twelve  old  men  who  are  in  a 
peculiar  manner  under  his  care.    No  doubt  with  such 


hiram's  hospital. 


9 


an  income  Mr.  Harding  should  be  above  the  world, 
as  the  saying  is ;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  is  not  above 
Archdeacon  Theophilus  Grantly,  for  he  is  always  more 
or  less  in  debt  to  his  son-in-law,  who  has,  to  a  certain 
extent,  assumed  the  arrangement  of  the  precentor's 
pecuniary  affairs. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER. 

Mr.  Harding  has  been  now  precentor  of  Barchester 
for  ten  years ;  and,  alas,  the  murmurs  respecting  the 
proceeds  of  Hiram's  estate  are  again  becoming  audible. 
It  is  not  that  any  one  begrudges  to  Mr.  Harding  the 
income  which  he  enjoys,  and  the  comfortable  place 
which  so  well  becomes  him;  but  such  matters  have 
begun  to  be  talked  of  in  various  parts  of  England. 
Eager,  pushing  politicians  have  asserted  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  with  very  telling  indignation,  that  the 
grasping  priests  of  the  Church  of  England  are  gorged 
with  the  wealth  which  the  charity  of  former  times  has 
left  for  the  solace  of  the  aged,  or  the  education  of  the 
young.  The  well-known  case  of  the  Hospital  of  St. 
Cross  has  even  come  before  the  law  courts  of  the 
country,  and  the  struggles  of  Mr.  Whiston,  at  Roches- 
ter, have  met  with  sympathy  and  support.  Men  are 
beginning  to  say  that  these  things  must  be  looked  into. 

Mr.  Harding,  whose  conscience  in  the  matter  is  clear, 
and  who  has  never  felt  that  he  had  received  a  pound 
from  Hiram's  will  to  which  he  was  not  entitled,  has 
naturally  taken  the  part  of  the  church  in  talking  over 
these  matters  with  his  friend,  the  bishop,  and  his  son- 
in-law,  the  archdeacon.  The  archdeacon,  indeed.  Dr. 
Grantly,  has  been  somewhat  loud  in  the  matter.  He 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER.  II 

is  a  personal  friend  of  the  dignitaries  of  the  Roches- 
ter Chapter,  and  has  written  letters  in  the  public  press 
on  the  subject  of  that  turbulent  Dr.  Whiston,  which, 
his  admirers  think,  must  well-nigh  set  the  question  at 
rest.  It  is  also  known  at  Oxford  that  he  is  the  author 
of  the  pamphlet  signed  "  Sacerdos,"  on  the  subject  of 
the  Earl  of  Guildford  and  St.  Cross,  in  which  it  is  so 
clearly  argued  that  the  manners  of  the  present  times 
do  not  admit  of  a  literal  adhesion  to  the  very  words  of 
the  founder's  will,  but  that  the  interests  of  the  church 
for  which  the  founder  was  so  deeply  concerned  are 
best  consulted  in  enabling  its  bishops  to  reward  those 
shining  hghts  whose  services  have  been  most  signally 
serviceable  to  Christianity.  In  answer  to  this,  it  is  as- 
serted that  Henry  de  Blois,  founder  of  St.  Cross,  was 
not  greatly  interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  reformed 
chiu"ch,  and  that  the  masters  of  St.  Cross,  for  many 
years  past,  cannot  be  called  shining  lights  in  the  serv- 
ice of  Christianity.  It  is,  however,  stoutly  maintained, 
and  no  doubt  felt,  by  all  the  archdeacon's  friends  that 
his  logic  is  conclusive,  and  has  not,  in  fact,  been  an- 
swered. 

With  such  a  tower  of  strength  to  back  both  his  ar- 
guments and  his  conscience,  it  may  be  imagined  that 
Mr.  Harding  has  never  felt  any  compunction  as  to  re- 
ceiving his  quarterly  sum  of  two  hundred  pounds. 
Indeed,  the  subject  has  never  presented  itself  to  his 
mind  in  that  shape.  He  has  talked  not  unfrequently, 
and  heard  very  much  about  the  wills  of  old  founders 
and  the  incomes  arising  from  their  estates,  during  the 
last  year  or  two ;  he  did  even,  at  one  moment,  feel  a 
doubt  (since  expelled  by  his  son-in-law's  logic)  as  to 
whether  Lord  Guildford  was  clearly  entitled  to  receive 


12 


THE  WARDEN. 


SO  enormous  an  income  as  he  does  from  the  revenues 
of  St.  Cross ;  but  that  he  himself  was  overpaid  with 
his  modest  eight  hundred  pounds, — he  who,  out  of 
that,  voluntarily  gave  up  sixty-two  pounds  eleven  shil- 
lings and  fourpence  a  year  to  his  twelve  old  neighbours, 
— he  who,  for  the  money,  does  his  precentor's  work  as 
no  precentor  has  done  it  before  since  Barchester  Ca- 
thedral was  built, — such  an  idea  has  never  sullied  his 
quiet,  or  disturbed  his  conscience. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Harding  is  becoming  uneasy  at 
the  rumour  which  he  knows  to  prevail  in  Barchester  on 
the  subject.  He  is  aware  that,  at  any  rate,  two  of  his 
old  men  have  been  heard  to  say,  that  if  every  one  had 
his  own,  they  might  each  have  their  hundred  pounds 
a  year  and  live  like  gentlemen,  instead  of  a  beggarly 
one  shilling  and  sixpence  a  day ;  and  that  they  had 
slender  cause  to  be  thankful  for  a  miserable  dole  of 
twopence,  when  Mr.  Harding  and  Mr.  Chadwick,  be- 
tween them,  ran  away  with  thousands  of  pounds  which 
good  old  John  Hiram  never  intended  for  the  like  of 
them.  It  is  the  ingratitude  of  this  which  stings  Mr. 
Harding.  One  of  this  discontented  pair,  Abel  Handy, 
was  put  into  the  hospital  by  himself ;  he  had  been  a 
stonemason  in  Barchester,  and  had  broken  his  thigh 
by  a  fall  from  a  scaffolding,  while  employed  about  the 
cathedral ;  and  Mr.  Harding  had  given  him  the  first 
vacancy  in  the  hospital  after  the  occurrence,  although 
Dr.  Grantly  had  been  very  anxious  to  put  into  it  an 
insufferable  clerk  of  his  at  Plumstead  Episcopi,  who 
had  lost  all  his  teeth,  and  whom  the  archdeacon  hardly 
knew  how  to  get  rid  of  by  other  means.  Dr.  Grantly 
has  not  forgotten  to  remind  Mr.  Harding  how  well 
satisfied  with  his  one  and  sixpence  a  day  old  Joe 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER. 


13 


Mutters  would  have  been,  and  how  injudicious  it  was 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Harding  to  allow  a  radical  from  the 
town  to  get  into  the  concern.  Probably  Dr.  Grantly 
forgot,  at  the  moment,  that  the  charity  was  intended 
for  broken-down  journeymen  of  Barchester. 

There  is  living  at  Barchester  a  young  man,  a  sur- 
geon, named  John  Bold,  and  both  Mr.  Harding  and 
Dr.  Grantly  are  well  aware  that  to  him  is  owing  the 
pestilent,  rebellious  feeling  which  has  shown  itself  in  the 
hospital ;  yes,  and  the  renewal,  too,  of  that  disagreea- 
ble talk  about  Hiram's  estates  which  is  now  again  prev- 
alent in  Barchester.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Harding  and 
Mr.  Bold  are  acquainted  with  each  other.  We  may 
say,  are  friends,  considering  the  great  disparity  in  their 
years.  Dr.  Grantly,  however,  has  a  holy  horror  of  the 
impious  demagogue,  as  on  one  occasion  he  called 
Bold,  when  speaking  of  him  to  the  precentor ;  and  be- 
ing a  more  prudent,  far-seeing  man  than  Mr.  Harding, 
and  possessed  of  a  stronger  head,  he  already  perceives 
that  this  John  Bold  will  work  great  trouble  in  Bar- 
chester. He  considers  that  he  is  to  be  regarded  as  an 
enemy,  and  thinks  that  he  should  not  be  admitted  into 
the  camp  on  anything  like  friendly  terms.  As  John 
Bold  will  occupy  much  of  our  attention,  we  must  en- 
deavour to  explain  who  he  is,  and  why  he  takes  the 
part  of  John  Hiram's  bedesmen. 

John  Bold  is  a  young  surgeon,  who  passed  many  of 
his  boyish  years  at  Barchester.  His  father  was  a 
physician  in  the  city  of  London,  where  he  made  a 
moderate  fortune,  which  he  invested  in  houses  in  that 
city.  The  Dragon  of  Wantly  inn  and  posting-house 
belonged  to  him,  also  four  shops  in  the  High  Street, 
and  a  moiety  of  the  new  row  of  genteel  villas  (so  called 


14  THE  WARDEN. 

in  the  advertisements)  built  outside  the  town  just  be- 
yond Hiram's  Hospital.  To  one  of  these  Dr.  Bold 
retired  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  life,  and  to  die ;  and 
here  his  son  John  spent  his  holidays,  and  afterwards 
his  Christmas  vacation,  when  he  went  from  school  to 
study  surgery  in  the  London  hospitals.  Just  as  John 
Bold  was  entitled  to  write  himself  surgeon  and  apothe- 
cary, old  Dr.  Bold  died,  leaving  his  Barchester  prop- 
erty to  his  son,  and  a  certain  sum  in  the  three  per 
cents,  to  his  daughter  Mary,  who  is  some  four  or  five 
years  older  than  her  brother. 

John  Bold  determined  to  settle  himself  at  Barchester, 
and  look  after  his  own  property,  as  well  as  the  bones 
and  bodies  of  such  of  his  neighbours  as  would  call  upon 
him  for  assistance  in  their  troubles.  He  therefore  put 
up  a  large  brass  plate,  with  "  John  Bold,  Surgeon,"  on 
it,  to  the  great  disgust  of  the  nine  practitioners  who 
were  already  trying  to  get  a  living  out  of  the  bishop, 
dean,  and  canons ;  and  began  housekeeping  with  the 
aid  of  his  sister.  At  this  time  he  was  not  more  than 
twenty-four  years  old ;  and  though  he  has  now  been 
three  years  in  Barchester,  we  have  not  heard  that  he 
has  done  much  harm  to  the  nine  worthy  practitioners. 
Indeed,  their  dread  of  him  has  died  away ;  for  in  three 
years  he  has  not  taken  three  fees. 

Nevertheless,  John  Bold  is  a  clever  man,  and  would, 
with  practice,  be  a  clever  surgeon ;  but  he  has  got 
quite  into  another  line  of  life.  Having  enough  to  live 
on,  he  has  not  been  forced  to  work  for  bread ;  he  has 
declined  to  subject  himself  to  what  he  calls  the  drudgery 
of  the  profession,  by  which,  I  beheve,  he  means  the 
general  work  of  a  practising  surgeon ;  and  has  found 
other  employment.    He  frequently  binds  up  the  bruises 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER. 


15 


and  sets  the  limbs  of  such  of  the  poorer  classes  as  pro- 
fess his  way  of  thinking, — but  this  he  does  for  love. 
Now  I  will  not  say  that  the  archdeacon  is  strictly  cor- 
rect in  stigmatising  John  Bold  as  a  demagogue,  for  I 
hardly  know  how  extreme  must  be  a  man's  opinions 
before  he  can  be  justly  so  called ;  but  Bold  is  a  strong 
reformer.  His  passion  is  the  reform  of  all  abuses; 
state  abuses,  church  abuses,  corporation  abuses  (he  has 
got  himself  elected  a  town  councillor  of  Barchester, 
and  has  so  worried  three  consecutive  mayors  that  it 
became  somewhat  difficult  to  find  a  fourth),  abuses  in 
medical  practice,  and  general  abuses  in  the  world  at 
large.  Bold  is  thoroughly  sincere  in  his  patriotic  en- 
deavours to  mend  mankind,  and  there  is  something  to 
be  admired  in  the  energy  with  which  he  devotes  him- 
self to  remedying  evil  and  stopping  injustice ;  but  I 
fear  that  he  is  too  much  imbued  with  the  idea  that  he 
has  a  special  mission  for  reforming.  It  would  be  well 
if  one  so  young  had  a  little  more  diffidence  himself,  and 
more  trust  in  the  honest  purposes  of  others, — if  he 
could  be  brought  to  believe  that  old  customs  need  not 
necessarily  be  evil,  and  that  changes  may  possibly  be 
dangerous ;  but  no ;  Bold  has  all  the  ardour  and  all 
the  self-assurance  of  a  Danton,  and  hurls  his  anathe- 
mas against  time-honoured  practices  with  the  violence 
of  a  French  Jacobin. 

No  wonder  that  Dr.  Grantly  should  regard  Bold  as 
a  firebrand,  falling,  as  he  has  done,  almost  in  the  centre 
of  the  quiet,  ancient  close  of  Barchester  Cathedral. 
Dr.  Grantly  would  have  him  avoided  as  the  plague ; 
but  the  old  Doctor  and  Mr.  Harding  were  fast  friends. 
Young  Johnny  Bold  used  to  play  as  a  boy  on  Mr. 
Harding's  lawn;  he  has  many  a  time  won  the  pre- 


i6 


THE  WARDEN. 


center's  heart  by  listening  with  rapt  attention  to  his 
sacred  strains ;  and  since  those  days,  to  tell  the  truth 
at  once,  he  has  nearly  won  another  heart  within  the 
same  walls. 

Eleanor  Harding  has  not  plighted  her  troth  to  John 
Bold,  nor  has  she,  perhaps,  owned  to  herself  how  dear 
to  her  the  young  reformer  is ;  but  she  cannot  endure 
that  any  one  should  speak  harshly  of  him.  She  does 
not  dare  to  defend  him  when  her  brother-in-law  is  so 
loud  against  him ;  for  she,  like  her  father,  is  somewhat 
afraid  of  Dr.  Grantly ;  but  she  is  beginning  greatly  to 
dislike  the  archdeacon.  She  persuades  her  father  that 
it  would  be  both  unjust  and  injudicious  to  banish  his 
young  friend  because  of  his  politics ;  she  cares  little  to 
go  to  houses  where  she  will  not  meet  him,  and,  in  fact, 
she  is  in  love. 

Nor  is  there  any  good  reason  why  Eleanor  Harding 
should  not  love  John  Bold.  He  has  all  those  quaUties 
which  are  likely  to  touch  a  girl's  heart.  He  is  brave, 
eager,  and  amusing ;  well  made  and  good  looking ; 
young  and  enterprising ;  his  character  is  in  all  respects 
good ;  he  has  sufficient  income  to  support  a  wife ;  he 
is  her  father's  friend ;  and,  above  all,  he  is  in  love  with 
her.  Then  why  should  not  Eleanor  Harding  be  at- 
tached to  John  Bold? 

Dr.  Grantly,  who  has  as  many  eyes  as  Argus,  and 
has  long  seen  how  the  wind  blows  in  that  direction, 
thinks  there  are  various  strong  reasons  why  this  should 
not  be  so.  He  has  not  thought  it  wise  as  yet  to  speak 
to  his  father-in-law  on  the  subject,  for  he  knows  how 
foolishly  indulgent  is  Mr.  Harding  in  everything  that 
concerns  his  daughter ;  but  he  has  discussed  the  mat- 
ter with  his  all-trusted  helpmate  within  that  sacred  re- 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER. 


17 


cess  formed  by  the  clerical  bed-curtains  of  Plumstead 
Episcopi. 

How  much  sweet  solace,  how  much  valued  counsel 
has  our  archdeacon  received  within  that  sainted  en- 
closure !  'T  is  there  alone  that  he  unbends  and  comes 
down  from  his  high  church  pedestal  to  the  level  of  a 
mortal  man.  In  the  world  Dr.  Grantly  never  lays 
aside  that  demeanour  which  so  well  becomes  him.  He 
has  all  the  dignity  of  an  ancient  saint  with  the  sleek- 
ness of  a  modem  bishop ;  he  is  always  the  same ;  he 
is  always  the  archdeacon ;  unlike  Homer,  he  never 
nods.  Even  with  his  father-in-law,  even  with  the 
bishop  and  dean,  he  maintains  that  sonorous  tone  and 
lofty  deportment  which  strikes  awe  into  the  young 
hearts  of  Barchester,  and  absolutely  cows  the  whole 
parish  of  Plumstead  Episcopi.  'T  is  only  when  he  has 
exchanged  that  ever-new  shovel  hat  for  a  tasselled 
nightcap,  and  those  shining  black  habiliments  for  his 
accustomed  robe  de  nuif,  that  Dr.  Grantly  talks,  and 
looks,  and  thinks  like  an  ordinary  man. 

Many  of  us  have  often  thought  how  severe  a  trial 
of  faith  must  this  be  to  the  wives  of  our  great  chiu-ch 
dignitaries.  To  us  these  men  are  personifications  of 
St.  Paul ;  their  very  gait  is  a  speaking  sermon ;  their 
clean  and  sombre  apparel  exacts  from  us  faith  and 
submission,  and  the  cardinal  virtues  seem  to  hover 
round  their  sacred  hats.  A  dean  or  archbishop  in  the 
garb  of  his  order  is  sure  of  our  reverence,  and  a  well 
got-up  bishop  fills  our  very  souls  with  awe.  But  how 
can  this  feeling  be  perpetuated  in  the  bosoms  of  those 
who  see  the  bishops  without  their  aprons,  and  the  arch- 
deacons even  in  a  lower  state  of  dishabille? 

Do  we  not  all  know  some  reverend,  all  but  sacred, 
2 


i8 


THE  WARDEN. 


personage  before  whom  our  tongue  ceases  to  be  loud, 
and  our  step  to  be  elastic?  But  were  we  once  to 
see  him  stretch  himself  beneath  the  bedclothes,  yawn 
widely,  and  bury  his  face  upon  his  pillow,  we  could 
chatter  before  him  as  glibly  as  before  a  doctor  or  a 
lawyer.  From  some  such  cause,  doubtless,  it  arose 
that  our  archdeacon  listened  to  the  counsels  of  his  wife, 
though  he  considered  himself  entitled  to  give  counsel 
to  every  other  being  whom  he  met. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  adjusted  the  copious  folds 
of  his  nightcap,  "there  was  that  John  Bold  at  your 
father's  again  to-day.  I  must  say  your  father  is  very 
imprudent." 

"  He  is  imprudent ; — he  always  was,"  replied  Mrs. 
Grantly,  speaking  from  under  the  comfortable  bed- 
clothes.   "There  *s  nothing  new  in  that." 

"  No,  my  dear,  there 's  nothing  new ; — I  know  that ; 
but,  at  the  present  juncture  of  affairs,  such  imprudence 
is — is — I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  dear,  if  he  does  not  take 
care  what  he  's  about,  John  Bold  will  be  off  with 
Eleanor." 

"  I  think  he  will,  whether  papa  takes  care  or  no. 
And  why  not?  " 

"  Why  not! "  almost  screamed  the  archdeacon,  giving 
so  rough  a  pull  at  his  nightcap  as  almost  to  bring  it 
over  his  nose ;  "  why  not !  — that  pestilent,  interfering 
upstart,  John  Bold ; — the  most  vulgar  young  person  I 
ever  met!     Do  you  know  that  he  is  meddling  with 

your  father's  affairs  in  a  most  uncalled  for — most  " 

And  being  at  a  loss  for  an  epithet  sufficiently  in- 
jirrious,  he  finished  his  expressions  of  horror  by  mut- 
tering, "  Good  heavens ! "  in  a  manner  that  had  been 
found  very  efficacious  in  clerical  meetings  of  the  dio- 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER.  1 9 

cese.  He  must  for  the  moment  have  forgotten  where 
he  was. 

"As  to  his  vulgarity,  archdeacon"  (Mrs.  Grantly 
had  never  assumed  a  more  familiar  term  than  this  in 
addressing  her  husband),  "I  don't  agree  with  you. 
Not  that  I  like  Mr.  Bold ; — he  is  a  great  deal  too  con- 
ceited for  me ;  but  then  Eleanor  does,  and  it  would 
be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  papa  if  they  were 
to  marry.  Bold  would  never  trouble  himself  about 
Hiram's  Hospital  if  he  were  papa's  son-in-law."  And 
the  lady  turned  herself  round  under  the  bedclothes  in 
a  manner  to  which  the  doctor  was  well  accustomed, 
and  which  told  him,  as  plainly  as  words,  that  as  far  as 
she  was  concerned  the  subject  was  over  for  that  night. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  murmured  the  doctor  again.  He 
was  evidently  much  put  beside  himself. 

Dr.  Grantly  was  by  no  means  a  bad  man ;  he  was 
exactly  the  man  which  such  an  education  as  his  was 
most  likely  to  form ;  his  intellect  being  sufficient  for 
such  a  place  in  the  world,  but  not  sufficient  to  put  him 
in  advance  of  it.  He  performed  with  a  rigid  constancy 
such  of  the  duties  of  a  parish  clergyman  as  were,  to 
his  thinking,  above  the  sphere  of  his  curate,  but  it  is 
as  an  archdeacon  that  he  shone. 

We  beheve,  as  a  general  rule,  that  either  a  bishop 
or  his  archdeacons  have  sinecures.  Where  a  bishop 
works,  archdeacons  have  but  little  to  do,  and  vice 
versa.  In  the  diocese  of  Barchester  the  archdeacon 
of  Barchester  did  the  work.  In  that  capacity  he  was 
diligent,  authoritative,  and,  as  his  friends  particularly 
boasted,  judicious.  His  great  fault  was  an  overbearing 
assurance  of  the  virtues  and  claims  of  his  order,  and 
his  great  foible  an  equally  strong  confidence  in  the 


20 


THE  WARDEN. 


dignity  of  his  own  manner  and  the  eloquence  of  his 
own  words.  He  was  a  moral  man,  believing  the  pre- 
cepts which  he  taught,  and  believing  also  that  he  acted 
up  to  them ;  though  we  cannot  say  that  he  would  give 
his  coat  to  the  man  who  took  his  cloak,  or  that  he  was 
prepared  to  forgive  his  brother  even  seven  times.  He 
was  severe  enough  in  exacting  his  dues,  considering 
that  any  laxity  in  this  respect  would  endanger  the  se- 
curity of  the  church  ;  and,  could  he  have  had  his  way, 
he  would  have  consigned  to  darkness  and  perdition, 
not  only  every  individual  reformer,  but  every  com- 
mittee and  every  commission  that  would  even  dare  to 
ask  a  question  respecting  the  appropriation  of  church 
revenues. 

"They  are  chm-ch  revenues:  the  laity  admit  it. 
Surely  the  church  is  able  to  administer  her  own  reve- 
nues." 'T  was  thus  he  was  accustomed  to  argue,  when 
the  sacrilegious  doings  of  Lord  John  Russell  and  others 
were  discussed  either  at  Barchester  or  at  Oxford. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Dr.  Grantly  did  not  like  John 
Bold,  and  that  his  wife's  suggestion  that  he  should 
become  closely  connected  with  such  a  man  dismayed 
him.  To  give  him  his  dues,  we  must  admit  that  the 
archdeacon  never  wanted  courage ;  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  meet  his  enemy  on  any  field  and  with  any 
weapon.  He  had  that  belief  in  his  own  arguments 
that  he  felt  sure  of  success,  could  he  only  be  sure  of 
a  fair  fight  on  the  part  of  his  adversary.  He  had 
no  idea  that  John  Bold  could  really  prove  that  the  in- 
come of  the  hospital  was  malappropriated.  Why,  then, 
should  peace  be  sought  for  on  such  bad  terms?  What! 
bribe  an  unbelieving  enemy  of  the  church  with  the  sis- 
ter-in-law of  one  dignitary  and  the  daughter  of  another, 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER.  21 

— with  a  young  lady  whose  connections  with  the  dio- 
cese and  chapter  of  Barchester  were  so  close  as  to  give 
her  an  undeniable  claim  to  a  husband  endowed  with 
some  of  its  sacred  wealth!  When  Dr.  Grantly  talks 
of  unbelieving  enemies,  he  does  not  mean  to  imply 
want  of  behef  in  the  doctrines  of  the  church,  but  an 
equally  dangerous  scepticism  as  to  its  purity  in  money 
matters. 

Mrs.  Grantly  is  not  usually  deaf  to  the  claims  of  the 
high  order  to  which  she  belongs.  She  and  her  husband 
rarely  disagree  as  to  the  tone  with  which  the  church 
should  be  defended.  How  singular,  then,  that  in  such 
a  case  as  this  she  should  be  willing  to  succumb !  The 
archdeacon  again  murmurs  "  Good  heavens! "  as  he 
lays  himself  beside  her,  but  he  does  so  in  a  voice  audi- 
ble only  to  himself,  and  he  repeats  it  till  sleep  relieves 
him  from  deep  thought. 

Mr.  Harding  himself  has  seen  no  reason  why  his 
daughter  should  not  love  John  Bold.  He  has  not  been 
unobservant  of  her  feelings,  and  perhaps  his  deepest 
regret  at  the  part  which  he  fears  Bold  is  about  to  take 
regarding  the  hospital  arises  from  a  dread  that  he  may 
be  separated  from  his  daughter,  or  that  she  may  be 
separated  from  the  man  she  loves.  He  has  never 
spoken  to  Eleanor  about  her  lover ;  he  is  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  allude  to  such  a  subject  unconsulted, 
even  with  his  own  daughter ;  and  had  he  considered 
that  he  had  ground  to  disapprove  of  Bold,  he  would 
have  removed  her  or  forbidden  him  his  house ;  but  he 
saw  no  such  ground.  He  would  probably  have  pre- 
ferred a  second  clerical  son-in-law,  for  Mr.  Harding, 
also,  is  attached  to  his  order ;  and,  failing  in  that,  he 
would  at  any  rate  have  wished  that  so  near  a  con- 


22 


THE  WARDEN. 


nection  should  have  thought  ahke  with  him  on  church 
matters.  He  would  not,  however,  reject  the  man  his 
daughter  loved  because  he  differed  on  such  subjects 
with  himself. 

Hitherto  Bold  had  taken  no  steps  in  the  matter  in 
any  way  annoying  to  Mr.  Harding  personally.  Some 
months  since,  after  a  severe  battle,  which  cost  him  not 
a  little  money,  he  gained  a  victory  over  a  certain  old 
turnpike  woman  in  the  neighbourhood,  of  whose  charges 
another  old  woman  had  complained  to  him.  He  got 
the  act  of  Parliament  relating  to  the  trust,  found  that 
his  protegee  had  been  wrongly  taxed,  rode  through  the 
gate  himself,  paying  the  toll,  then  brought  an  action 
against  the  gate-keeper,  and  proved  that  all  people 
coming  up  a  certain  by-lane,  and  going  down  a  certain 
other  by-lane,  were  toll-free.  The  fame  of  his  success 
spread  widely  abroad,  and  he  began  to  be  looked  on  as 
the  upholder  of  the  rights  of  the  poor  of  Barchester. 
Not  long  after  this  success,  he  heard  from  different 
quarters  that  Hiram's  bedesmen  were  treated  as  pau- 
pers, whereas  the  property  to  which  they  were,  in  ef- 
fect, heirs,  was  very  large ;  and  he  was  instigated  by 
the  lawyer  whom  he  had  employed  in  the  case  of  the 
turnpike  to  call  upon  Mr.  Chadwick  for  a  statement  as 
to  the  funds  of  the  estate. 

Bold  had  often  expressed  his  indignation  at  the  mal- 
appropriation  of  church  funds  in  general,  in  the  hear- 
ing of  his  friend  the  precentor ;  but  the  conversation 
had  never  referred  to  anything  at  Barchester;  and 
when  Finney,  the  attorney,  induced  him  to  interfere 
with  the  affairs  of  the  hospital,  it  was  against  Mr. 
Chadwick  that  his  efforts  were  to  be  directed.  Bold 
soon  found  that  if  he  interfered  with  Mr.  Chadwick 


THE  BARCHESTER  REFORMER. 


23 


as  steward,  he  must  also  interfere  with  Mr.  Harding 
as  warden ;  and  though  he  regretted  the  situation  in 
which  this  would  place  him,  he  was  not  the  man  to 
flinch  from  his  undertaking  from  personal  motives. 

As  soon  as  he  had  determined  to  take  the  matter  in 
hand,  he  set  about  his  work  with  his  usual  energy. 
He  got  a  copy  of  John  Hiram's  will,  of  the  wording 
of  which  he  made  himself  perfectly  master.  He  as- 
certained the  extent  of  the  property,  and  as  nearly  as 
he  could  the  value  of  it ;  and  made  out  a  schedule  cf 
what  he  was  informed  was  the  present  distribution  of 
its  income.  Armed  with  these  particulars,  he  called 
on  Mr.  Chadwick,  having  given  that  gentleman  notice 
of  his  visit;  and  asked  him  for  a  statement  of  the 
income  and  expenditure  of  the  hospital  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years. 

This  was  of  course  refused,  Mr.  Chadwick  alleging 
that  he  had  no  authority  for  making  public  the  con- 
cerns of  a  property  in  managing  which  he  was  only  a 
paid  servant. 

"  And  who  is  competent  to  give  you  that  authority, 
Mr.  Chadwick?"  asked  Bold. 

"Only  those  who  employ  me,  Mr.  Bold,"  said  the 
steward. 

"And  who  are  those,  Mr.  Chadwick?"  demanded 
Bold. 

Mr.  Chadwick  begged  to  say  that  if  these  inquiries 
were  made  merely  out  of  curiosity,  he  must  decline 
answering  them :  if  Mr.  Bold  had  any  ulterior  proceed- 
ing in  view,  perhaps  it  would  be  desirable  that  any 
necessary  information  should  be  sought  for  in  a  pro- 
fessional way  by  a  professional  man.  Mr.  Chadwick's 
attorneys  were  Messrs.  Cox  and  Cummins,  of  Lincoln's 


24 


THE  WARDEN. 


Inn.  Mr.  Bold  took  down  the  address  of  Cox  and 
Cummins,  remarked  that  the  weather  was  cold  for  the 
time  of  the  year,  and  wished  Mr.  Chadwick  good 
morning.  Mr.  Chadwick  said  it  was  cold  for  June, 
and  bowed  him  out. 

He  at  once  went  to  his  lawyer,  Finney.  Now, 
Bold  was  not  very  fond  of  his  attorney,  but,  as  he 
said,  he  merely  wanted  a  man  who  knew  the  forms  of 
law,  and  who  would  do  what  he  was  told  for  his 
money.  He  had  no  idea  of  putting  himself  in  the 
hands  of  a  lawyer.  He  wanted  law  from  a  lawyer  as 
he  did  a  coat  from  a  tailor,  because  he  could  not  make 
it  so  well  himself;  and  he  thought  Finney  the  fittest 
man  in  Barchester  for  his  purpose.  In  one  respect,  at 
any  rate,  he  was  right.    Finney  was  humility  itself. 

Finney  advised  an  instant  letter  to  Cox  and  Cum- 
mins, mindful  of  his  six-and-eightpence.  "  Slap  at  them 
at  once,  Mr.  Bold.  Demand  categorically  and  explic- 
itly a  full  statement  of  the  affairs  of  the  hospital." 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  see  Mr.  Harding  first,"  suggested 
Bold. 

"  Yes,  yes,  by  all  means,"  said  the  acquiescing  Fin- 
ney ;  "  though,  perhaps,  as  Mr.  Harding  is  no  man  of 
business,  it  may  lead — lead  to  some  little  difficulties ; 
but  perhaps  you  're  right.  Mr.  Bold,  I  don't  think 
seeing  Mr.  Harding  can  do  any  harm."  Finney  saw 
from  the  expression  of  his  cHent's  face  that  he  intended 
to  have  his  own  way. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


Bold  at  once  repaired  to  the  hospital.  The  day- 
was  now  far  advanced,  but  he  knew  that  Mr.  Harding 
dined  in  the  summer  at  four,  that  Eleanor  was  accus- 
tomed to  drive  in  the  evening,  and  that  he  might  there- 
fore probably  find  Mr.  Harding  alone.  It  was  between 
seven  and  eight  when  he  reached  the  slight  iron  gate 
leading  into  the  precentor's  garden,  and  though,  as 
Mr.  Chadwick  observed,  the  day  had  been  cold  for 
June,  the  evening  was  mild,  and  soft,  and  sweet.  The 
little  gate  was  open.  As  he  raised  the  latch  he  heard 
the  notes  of  Mr.  Harding's  violoncello  from  the  far  end 
of  the  garden,  and,  advancing  before  the  house  and 
across  the  lawn,  he  found  him  playing ; — and  not 
without  an  audience.  The  musician  was  seated  in  a 
garden-chair  just  within  the  summer-house,  so  as  to  al- 
low the  violoncello  which  he  held  between  his  knees  to 
rest  upon  the  dry  stone  flooring ;  before  him  stood  a 
rough  music  desk,  on  which  was  open  a  page  of  that 
dear,  sacred  book,  that  much-laboured  and  much-loved 
volume  of  church  music,  which  had  cost  so  many 
guineas;  and  around  sat,  and  lay,  and  stood,  and 
leaned,  ten  of  the  twelve  old  men  who  dwelt  with  him 
beneath  old  John  Hiram's  roof.  The  two  reformers 
were  not  there.    I  will  not  say  that  in  their  hearts  they 


26 


THE  WARDEN. 


were  conscious  of  any  wrong  done  or  to  be  done  to 
their  mild  warden,  but  latterly  they  had  kept  aloof  from 
him,  and  his  music  was  no  longer  to  their  taste. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  the  positions,  and  eager,  lis- 
tening faces  of  these  well-to-do  old  men.  I  will  not 
say  that  they  all  appreciated  the  music  which  they 
heard,  but  they  were  intent  on  appearing  to  do  so. 
Pleased  at  being  where  they  were,  they  were  deter- 
mined, as  far  as  in  them  lay,  to  give  pleasure  in  return ; 
and  they  were  not  unsuccessful.  It  gladdened  the 
precentor's  heart  to  think  that  the  old  bedesmen  whom 
he  loved  so  well  admired  the  strains  which  were  to 
him  so  full  of  almost  ecstatic  joy;  and  he  used  to 
boast  that  such  was  the  air  of  the  hospital,  as  to  make 
it  a  precinct  specially  fit  for  the  worship  of  St.  Cecilia. 

Immediately  before  him,  on  the  extreme  corner  of 
the  bench  which  ran  round  the  summer-house,  sat  one 
old  man,  with  his  handkerchief  smoothly  laid  upon  his 
knees,  who  did  enjoy  the  moment,  or  acted  enjoyment 
well.  He  was  one  on  whose  large  frame  many  years, 
for  he  was  over  eighty,  had  made  small  havoc.  He 
was  still  an  upright,  burly,  handsome  figure,  with  an 
open,  ponderous  brow,  round  which  clung  a  few, 
though  very  few,  thin  grey  locks.  The  coarse  black 
gown  of  the  hospital,  the  breeches  and  buckled  shoes 
became  him  well ;  and  as  he  sat  with  his  hands  folded 
on  his  staff,  and  his  chin  resting  on  his  hands,  he  was 
such  a  listener  as  most  musicians  would  be  glad  to 
welcome. 

This  man  was  certainly  the  pride  of  the  hospital. 
It  had  always  been  the  custom  that  one  should  be 
selected  as  being  to  some  extent  in  authority  over 
the  others;  and  though  Mr.  Bunce,  for  such  was  his 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


27 


name,  and  so  he  was  always  designated  by  his  inferior 
brethren,  had  no  greater  emoluments  than  they,  he 
had  assumed,  and  well  knew  how  to  maintain,  the 
dignity  of  his  elevation.  The  precentor  delighted  to 
call  him  his  sub-warden,  and  was  not  ashamed,  occa- 
sionally, when  no  other  guest  was  there,  to  bid  him 
sit  down  by  the  same  parlor  fire,  and  drink  the  full 
glass  of  port  which  was  placed  near  him.  Bunce  never 
went  without  the  second  glass,  but  no  entreaty  ever 
made  him  take  a  third. 

"  Well,  well,  Mr.  Harding ;  you  're  too  good,  much 
too  good,"  he  'd  always  say,  as  the  second  glass  was 
filled ;  but  when  that  was  drunk,  and  the  half  hour 
over,  Bunce  stood  erect,  and  with  a  benediction  which 
his  patron  valued,  retired  to  his  own  abode.  He  knew 
the  world  too  well  to  risk  the  comfort  of  such  halcyon 
moments  by  prolonging  them  till  they  were  disagree- 
able. 

Mr.  Bunce,  as  may  be  imagined,  was  most  strongly 
opposed  to  innovation.  Not  even  Dr.  Grantly  had  a 
more  holy  horror  of  those  who  would  interfere  in  the 
affairs  of  the  hospital.  He  was  every  inch  a  church- 
man ;  and  though  he  was  not  very  fond  of  Dr.  Grantly 
personally,  that  arose  from  there  not  being  room  in  the 
hospital  for  two  people  so  much  alike  as  the  doctor 
and  himself,  rather  than  from  any  dissimilarity  in  feel- 
ing. Mr.  Bunce  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  warden 
and  himself  could  manage  the  hospital  without  further 
assistance ;  and  that,  though  the  bishop  was  the  con- 
stitutional visitor,  and  as  such  entitled  to  special  rever- 
ence from  all  connected  with  John  Hiram's  will,  John 
Hiram  never  intended  that  his  affairs  should  be  inter- 
fered with  by  an  ardhdeacon. 


28 


THE  WARDEN. 


At  the  present  moment,  however,  these  cares  were 
off  his  mind,  and  he  was  looking  at  his  warden  as 
though  he  thought  the  music  heavenly,  and  the  musi- 
cian hardly  less  so. 

As  Bold  walked  silently  over  the  lawn,  Mr.  Harding 
did  not  at  first  perceive  him,  and  continued  to  draw 
his  bow  slowly  across  the  plaintive  wires ;  but  he  soon 
found  from  his  audience  that  some  stranger  was  there, 
and,  looking  up,  began  to  welcome  his  young  friend 
with  frank  hospitality. 

Pray,  Mr.  Harding  ;  pray  don't  let  me  dis- 
turb you,"  said  Bold ;  "  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of 
sacred  music." 

"Oh!  it 's  nothing,"  said  the  precentor,  shutting  up 
the  book  and  then  opening  it  again  as  he  saw  the  de- 
hghtfully  imploring  look  of  his  old  friend  Bunce.  Oh, 
Bunce,  Bunce,  Bunce,  I  fear  that  after  all  thou  art 
but  a  flatterer.  Well,  I  '11  just  finish  it  then  ;  it 's  a 
favourite  little  bit  of  Bishop's;  and  then,  Mr.  Bold, 
we  '11  have  a  stroll  and  a  chat  till  Eleanor  comes  in 
and  gives  us  tea."  And  so  Bold  sat  down  on  the  soft 
turf  to  listen,  or  rather  to  think  how,  after  such  sweet 
harmony,  he  might  best  introduce  a  theme  of  so  much 
discord  to  disturb  the  peace  of  him  who  was  so  ready 
to  welcome  him  kindly. 

Bold  thought  that  the  performance  was  soon  over, 
for  he  felt  that  he  had  a  somewhat  difficult  task,  and 
he  almost  regretted  the  final  leave-taking  of  the  last  of 
the  old  men,  slow  as  they  were  in  going  through  their 
adieus. 

Bold's  heart  was  in  his  mouth  as  the  precentor  made 
some  ordinary  but  kind  remark  as  to  the  friendhness 
of  the  visit. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


29 


"  One  evening  call,"  said  he,  "  is  worth  ten  in  the 
morning.  It 's  all  formality  in  the  morning.  Real 
social  talk  never  begins  till  after  dinner.  That 's  why 
I  dine  early,  so  as  to  get  as  much  as  I  can  of  it." 

"  Quite  true,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the  other ;  but  I 
fear  I 've  reversed  the  order  of  things,  and  I  owe  you 
much  apology  for  troubling  you  on  business  at  such  an 
hour ;  but  it  is  on  business  that  I  have  called  just  now." 

Mr.  Harding  looked  blank  and  annoyed.  There  was 
something  in  the  tone  of  the  young  man's  voice  which 
told  him  that  the  interview  was  intended  to  be  disagree- 
able, and  he  shrank  back  at  finding  his  kindly  greeting 
so  repulsed. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  the  hospital,"  con- 
tinued Bold. 

"  Well,  well,  anything  I  can  tell  you  I  shall  be  most 

happy  " 

"  It 's  about  the  accounts." 

"  Then,  my  dear  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  for 
I 'm  as  ignorant  as  a  child.  All  I  know  is,  that  they 
pay  me  800/.  a  year.  Go  to  Chadwick,  he  knows  all 
about  the  accounts ;  and  now  tell  me,  will  poor  Mary 
Jones  ever  get  the  use  of  her  limb  again?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  she  will,  if  she 's  careful.  But,  Mr. 
Harding,  I  hope  you  won't  object  to  discuss  with  me 
what  I  have  to  say  about  the  hospital." 

Mr.  Harding  gave  a  deep,  long-drawn  sigh.  He 
did  object,  very  strongly  object,  to  discuss  any  such 
subject  with  John  Bold ;  but  he  had  not  the  business 
tact  of  Mr.  Chadwick,  and  did  not  know  how  to  re- 
Heve  himself  from  the  coming  evil.  He  sighed  sadly, 
but  made  no  answer. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  regard  for  you,  Mr.  Harding," 


30 


THE  WARDEN. 


continued  Bold ;  "  the  truest  respect,  the  most  sin- 
cere " 

"Thank  ye,  thank  ye,  Mr.  Bold,"  interjaculated  the 
precentor  somewhat  impatiently ;  "  I 'm  much  obHged, 
but  never  mind  that ;  I 'm  as  likely  to  be  in  the  wrong 
as  another  man, — quite  as  likely." 

"  But,  Mr.  Harding,  I  must  express  what  I  feel,  lest 
you  should  think  there  is  personal  enmity  in  what  I 'm 
going  to  do." 

"  Personal  enmity !  Going  to  do !  Why  you  're  not 
going  to  cut  my  throat,  nor  put  me  into  the  Ecclesias- 
tical Court!" 

Bold  tried  to  laugh,  but  he  could  n't.  He  was  quite 
in  earnest,  and  determined  in  his  course,  and  could  n't 
make  a  joke  of  it.  He  walked  on  awhile  in  silence 
before  he  recommenced  his  attack,  during  which  Mr. 
Harding,  who  had  still  the  bow  in  his  hand,  played 
rapidly  on  an  imaginary  violoncello.  "  I  fear  there  is 
reason  to  think  that  John  Hiram's  will  is  not  carried 
out  to  the  letter,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the  young  man 
at  last ;  "  and  I  have  been  asked  to  see  into  it." 

"  Very  well ;  I 've  no  objection  on  earth ;  and  now 
we  need  not  say  another  word  about  it." 

"Only  one  word  more,  Mr.  Harding.  Chadwick 
has  referred  me  to  Cox  and  Cummins,  and  I  think  it 
my  duty  to  apply  to  them  for  some  statement  about 
the  hospital.  In  what  I  do  I  may  appear  to  be  inter- 
fering with  you,  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for 
doing  so." 

"  Mr.  Bold,"  said  the  other,  stopping,  and  speaking 
with  some  solemnity,  "  if  you  act  justly,  say  nothing  in 
this  matter  but  the  truth,  and  use  no  unfair  weapons  in 
carrying  out  your  purposes,  I  shall  have  nothing  to 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


31 


forgive.  I  presume  you  think  I  am  not  entitled  to  the 
income  I  receive  from  the  hospital,  and  that  others  are 
entitled  to  it.  Whatever  some  may  do,  I  shall  never 
attribute  to  you  base  motives  because  you  hold  an 
opinion  opposed  to  my  own,  and  adverse  to  my  inter- 
ests. Pray  do  what  you  consider  to  be  your  duty.  I 
can  give  you  no  assistance,  neither  will  I  offer  you  any 
obstacle.  Let  me,  however,  suggest  to  you,  that  you 
can  in  no  wise  forward  your  views  nor  I  mine  by  any 
discussion  between  us.  Here  comes  Eleanor  and  the 
ponies,  and  we  '11  go  in  to  tea." 

Bold,  however,  felt  that  he  could  not  sit  down  at 
ease  with  Mr.  Harding  and  his  daughter  after  what 
had  passed,  and  therefore  excused  himself  with  much 
awkward  apology ;  and  merely  raising  his  hat  and 
bowing  as  he  passed  Eleanor  and  the  pony  chair,  left 
her  in  disappointed  amazement  at  his  departure. 

Mr.  Harding's  demeanour  certainly  impressed  Bold 
with  a  full  conviction  that  he  as  warden  felt  that  he 
stood  on  strong  grounds,  and  almost  made  him  think 
that  he  was  about  to  interfere  without  due  warrant  in 
the  private  affairs  of  a  just  and  honourable  man.  But 
Mr.  Harding  himself  was  anything  but  satisfied  with 
his  own  view  of  the  case. 

In  the  first  place,  he  wished  for  Eleanor's  sake  to 
think  well  of  Bold  and  to  like  him,  and  yet  he  could 
not  but  feel  disgusted  at  the  arrogance  of  his  conduct. 
What  right  had  he  to  say  that  John  Hiram's  will  was 
not  fairly  carried  out?  But  then  the  question  would 
arise  within  his  heart, — Was  that  will  fairly  acted  on? 
Did  John  Hiram  mean  that  the  warden  of  his  hospital 
should  receive  considerably  more  out  of  the  legacy 
than  all  the  twelve  old  men  together  for  whose  behoof 


32 


THE  WARDEN. 


the  hospital  was  built?  Could  it  be  possible  that  John 
Bold  was  right,  and  that  the  reverend  warden  of  the 
hospital  had  been  for  the  last  ten  years  and  more  the 
unjust  recipient  of  an  income  legally  and  equitably  be- 
longing to  others?  What  if  it  should  be  proved  before 
the  light  of  day  that  he,  whose  life  had  been  so  happy, 
so  quiet,  so  respected,  had  absorbed  8000/.  to  which 
he  had  no  title,  and  which  he  could  never  repay?  I 
do  not  say  that  he  feared  that  such  was  really  the  case ; 
but  the  first  shade  of  doubt  now  fell  across  his  mind, 
and  from  this  evening,  for  many  a  long,  long  day,  our 
good,  kind,  loving  warden  was  neither  happy  nor  at 
ease. 

Thoughts  of  this  kind,  these  first  moments  of  much 
misery,  oppressed  Mr.  Harding  as  he  sat  sipping  his 
tea,  absent  and  ill  at  ease.  Poor  Eleanor  felt  that  all 
was  not  right,  but  her  ideas  as  to  the  cause  of  the 
evening's  discomfort  did  not  go  beyond  her  lover,  and 
his  sudden  and  uncivil  departure.  She  thought  there 
must  have  been  some  quarrel  between  Bold  and  her 
father,  and  she  was  half  angry  with  both,  though  she 
did  not  attempt  to  explain  to  herself  why  she  was  so. 

Mr.  Harding  thought  long  and  deeply  over  these 
things,  both  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  after  it,  as  he 
lay  awake,  questioning  within  himself  the  validity  of 
his  claim  to  the  income  which  he  enjoyed.  It  seemed 
clear  at  any  rate  that,  however  unfortunate  he  might 
be  at  having  been  placed  in  such  a  position,  no  one 
could  say  that  he  ought  either  to  have  refused  the 
appointment  first,  or  to  have  rejected  the  income  af- 
terwards. All  the  world, — meaning  the  ecclesiastical 
world  as  confined  to  the  English  church, — knew  that 
the  wardenship  of  the  Barchester  Hospital  was  a  snug 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


33 


sinecure,  but  no  one  had  ever  been  blamed  for  accept- 
ing it.  To  how  much  blame,  however,  would  he  have 
been  open  had  he  rejected  it!  How  mad  would  he 
have  been  thought  had  he  declared,  when  the  situation 
was  vacant  and  offered  to  him,  that  he  had  scruples  as 
to  receiving  800/.  a  year  from  John  Hiram's  property 
and  that  he  had  rather  some  stranger  should  possess  it! 
How  would  Dr.  Grantly  have  shaken  his  wise  head, 
and  have  consulted  with  his  friends  in  the  close  as  to 
some  decent  retreat  for  the  coming  insanity  of  the  poor 
minor  canon !  If  he  was  right  in  accepting  the  place, 
it  was  clear  to  him  also  that  he  would  be  wrong  in 
rejecting  any  part  of  the  income  attached  to  it.  The 
patronage  was  a  valuable  appanage  of  the  bishopric ; 
and  surely  it  would  not  be  his  duty  to  lessen  the  value 
of  that  preferment  which  had  been  bestowed  on  him- 
self!    Surely  he  was  bound  to  stand  by  his  order! 

But  somehow  these  arguments,  though  they  seemed 
logical,  were  not  satisfactory.  Was  John  Hiram's  will 
fairly  carried  out?  that  was  the  true  question:  and  if 
not,  was  it  not  his  especial  duty  to  see  that  this  was 
done, — his  especial  duty,  whatever  injury  it  might  do 
to  his  order, — however  ill  such  duty  might  be  received 
by  his  patron  and  his  friends?  At  the  idea  of  his 
friends,  his  mind  turned  unhappily  to  his  son-in-law. 
He  knew  well  how  strongly  he  would  be  supported  by 
Dr.  Grantly,  if  he  could  bring  himself  to  put  his  case 
into  the  archdeacon's  hands,  and  to  allow  him  to  fight 
the  battle ;  but  he  knew  also  that  he  would  find  no 
sympathy  there  for  his  doubts,  no  friendly  feeling,  no 
inward  comfort.  Dr.  Grantly  would  be  ready  enough 
to  take  up  his  cudgel  against  all  comers  on  behalf  of 
the  church  militant,  but  he  would  do  so  on  the  dis- 

3  ' 


34 


THE  WARDEN. 


tasteful  ground  of  the  church's  infalHbility.  Such  a 
contest  would  give  no  comfort  to  Mr.  Harding's  doubts. 
He  was  not  so  anxious  to  prove  himself  right  as  to  be 
so. 

I  have  said  before  that  Dr.  Grantly  was  the  work- 
ing man  of  the  diocese,  and  that  his  father,  the  bishop, 
was  somewhat  inclined  to  an  idle  life.  So  it  was ;  but 
the  bishop,  though  he  had  never  been  an  active  man, 
was  one  whose  qualities  had  rendered  him  dear  to  all 
who  knew  him.  He  was  the  very  opposite  to  his 
son ;  he  was  a  bland  and  a  kind  old  man,  opposed 
by  every  feeling  to  authoritative  demonstrations  and 
episcopal  ostentation.  It  was  perhaps  well  for  him,  in 
his  situation,  that  his  son  had  early  in  life  been  able 
to  do  that  which  he  could  not  well  do  when  he  was 
younger,  and  which  he  could  not  have  done  at  all  now 
that  he  was  over  seventy.  The  bishop  knew  how  to 
entertain  the  clergy  of  his  diocese,  to  talk  easy  small 
talk  with  the  rectors'  wives,  and  put  curates  at  their 
ease;  but  it  required  the  strong  hand  of  the  arch- 
deacon to  deal  with  such  as  were  refractory  either  in 
their  doctrines  or  their  lives. 

The  bishop  and  Mr.  Harding  loved  each  other 
warmly.  They  had  grown  old  together,  and  had  to- 
gether spent  many,  many  years  in  clerical  pursuits  and 
clerical  conversation.  When  one  of  them  was  a  bishop 
and  the  other  only  a  minor  canon,  they  were  even  then 
much  together ;  but  since  their  children  had  married, 
and  Mr.  Harding  had  become  warden  and  precentor, 
they  were  all  in  all  to  each  other.  I  will  not  say  that 
they  managed  the  diocese  between  them;  but  they 
spent  much  time  in  discussing  the  man  who  did,  and 
in  forming  little  plans  to  mitigate  his  wrath  against 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


35 


church  delinquents,  and  soften  his  aspirations  for  church 
dominion. 

Mr.  Harding  determined  to  open  his  mind  and  con- 
fess his  doubts  to  his  old  friend ;  and  to  him  he  went 
on  the  morning  after  John  Bold's  uncourteous  visit. 

Up  to  this  period  no  rumour  of  these  cruel  proceed- 
ings against  the  hospital  had  reached  the  bishop's  ears. 
He  had  doubtless  heard  that  men  existed  who  ques- 
tioned his  right  to  present  to  a  sinecure  of  800/.  a 
year,  as  he  had  heard  from  time  to  time  of  some 
special  immorality  or  disgraceful  disturbance  in  the 
usually  decent  and  quiet  city  of  Barchester ;  but  all 
he  did,  and  all  he  was  called  on  to  do,  on  such  occa- 
sions, was  to  shake  his  head,  and  to  beg  his  son,  the 
great  dictator,  to  see  that  no  harm  happened  to  the 
church. 

It  was  a  long  story  that  Mr.  Harding  had  to  tell 
before  he  made  the  bishop  comprehend  his  own  view  of 
the  case ;  but  we  need  not  follow  him  through  the  tale. 
At  first  the  bishop  counselled  but  one  step,  recom- 
mended but  one  remedy,  had  but  one  medicine  in  his 
whole  pharmacopoeia  strong  enough  to  touch  so  grave 
a  disorder.  He  prescribed  the  archdeacon.  "  Refer 
him  to  the  archdeacon,"  he  repeated,  as  Mr.  Harding 
spoke  of  Bold  and  his  visit.  "  The  archdeacon  will  set 
you  quite  right  about  that,"  he  kindly  said,  when  his 
friend  spoke  with  hesitation  of  the  justness  of  his  cause. 
"No  man  has  got  up  all  that  so  well  as  the  arch- 
deacon ; "  but  the  dose,  though  large,  failed  to  quiet 
the  patient.    Indeed,  it  almost  produced  nausea. 

"  But,  bishop,"  said  he,  "  did  you  ever  read  John 
Hiram's  will?  " 

The  bishop  thought  probably  he  had,  thirty- five  years 


36 


THE  WARDEN. 


ago,  when  first  instituted  to  his  see,  but  could  not  state 
positively :  however,  he  very  well  knew  that  he  had 
the  absolute  right  to  present  to  the  wardenship,  and 
that  the  income  of  the  warden  had  been  regularly 
settled. 

"  But,  bishop,  the  question  is,  who  has  the  power  to 
settle  it?  If,  as  this  young  man  says,  the  will  provides 
that  the  proceeds  of  the  property  are  to  be  divided 
into  shares,  who  has  the  power  to  alter  these  provis- 
ions?" The  bishop  had  an  indistinct  idea  that  they 
altered  themselves  by  the  lapse  of  years ;  that  a  kind 
of  ecclesiastical  statute  of  limitation  barred  the  rights  of 
the  twelve  bedesmen  to  any  increase  of  income  arising 
from  the  increased  value  of  property.  He  said  some- 
thing about  tradition  ;  more  of  the  many  learned  men 
who  by  their  practice  had  confirmed  the  present  ar- 
rangement ;  then  went  at  some  length  into  the  propri- 
ety of  maintaining  the  due  difference  in  rank  and  in- 
come between  a  beneficed  clergyman,  and  certain  poor 
old  men  who  were  dependent  on  charity;  and  con- 
cluded his  argument  by  another  reference  to  the  arch- 
deacon. 

The  precentor  sat  thoughtfully  gazing  at  the  fire, 
and  listening  to  the  good-natured  reasoning  of  his 
friend.  What  the  bishop  said  had  a  sort  of  comfort  in 
it,  but  it  was  not  a  sustaining  comfort.  It  made  Mr. 
Harding  feel  that  many  others, — indeed,  all  others  of 
his  own  order, — would  think  him  right ;  but  it  failed 
to  prove  to  him  that  he  truly  was  so. 

"  Bishop,"  said  he,  at  last,  after  both  had  sat  silent 
for  a  while,  "  I  should  deceive  you  and  myself  too  if 
I  did  not  tell  you  that  I  am  very  unhappy  about  this. 
Suppose  that  I  cannoi  bring  myself  to  agree  with  Dr. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


37 


Grantly! — that  I  find,  after  inquiry,  that  the  young 
man  is  right,  and  that  I  am  wrong, — what  then?  " 

The  two  old  men  were  sitting  near  each  other, — so 
near  that  the  bishop  was  able  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the 
other's  knee,  and  he  did  so  with  a  gentle  pressure. 
Mr.  Harding  well  knew  what  that  pressure  meant. 
The  bishop  had  no  further  argument  to  adduce ;  he 
could  not  fight  for  the  cause  as  his  son  would  do ;  he 
could  not  prove  all  the  precentor's  doubts  to  be 
groundless ;  but  he  could  sympathise  with  his  friend, 
and  he  did  so ;  and  Mr.  Harding  felt  that  he  had  re- 
ceived that  for  which  he  came.  There  was  another 
period  of  silence,  after  which,  the  bishop  asked  with 
a  degree  of  irritable  energy,  very  unusual  with  him, 
whether  this  "  pestilent  intruder  " — meaning  John  Bold 
— had  any  friends  in  Barchester. 

Mr.  Harding  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  the 
bishop  everything;  to  speak  of  his  daughter's  love, 
as  well  as  his  own  troubles ;  to  talk  of  John  Bold  in 
his  double  capacity  of  future  son-in-law  and  present 
enemy ;  and  though  he  felt  it  to  be  sufficiently  disa- 
greeable, now  was  his  time  to  do  it. 

"  He  is  very  intimate  at  my  own  house,  bishop." 
The  bishop  stared.  He  was  not  so  far  gone  in  ortho- 
doxy and  church-mihtancy  as  his  son,  but  still  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  understand  how  so  declared  an 
enemy  of  the  establishment  could  be  admitted  on  terms 
of  intimacy  into  the  house,  not  only  of  so  firm  a  pil- 
lar as  Mr.  Harding,  but  one  so  much  injured  as  the 
warden  of  the  hospital. 

"  Indeed,  I  like  Mr.  Bold  much,  personally,"  con- 
tinued the  disinterested  victim ;  "  and  to  tell  you  the 
*  truth,'  " — he  hesitated  as  he  brought  out  the  dreadful 


38 


THE  WARDEN. 


tidings, — "  I  have  sometimes  thought  it  not  improbable 
that  he  would  be  my  second  son-in-law."  The  bishop 
did  not  whistle.  We  believe  that  they  lose  the  power 
of  doing  so  on  being  consecrated ;  and  that  in  these 
days  one  might  as  easily  meet  a  corrupt  judge  as  a 
whistling  bishop ;  but  he  looked  as  though  he  would 
have  done  so  but  for  his  apron. 

What  a  brother-in-law  for  the  archdeacon !  what  an 
alHance  for  Barchester  close!  what  a  connection  for 
even  the  episcopal  palace!  The  bishop,  in  his  simple 
mind,  felt  no  doubt  that  John  Bold,  had  he  so  much 
power,  would  shut  up  all  cathedrals,  and  probably  all 
parish  churches;  distribute  all  tithes  among  Metho- 
dists, Baptists,  and  other  savage  tribes ;  utterly  anni- 
hilate the  sacred  bench,  and  make  shovel  hats  and 
lawn  sleeves  as  illegal  as  cowls,  sandals,  and  sackcloth ! 
Here  was  a  nice  man  to  be  initiated  into  the  com- 
fortable arcana  of  ecclesiastical  snuggeries ;  one  who 
doubted  the  integrity  of  parsons,  and  probably  disbe- 
lieved the  Trinity! 

Mr.  Harding  saw  what  an  effect  his  communication 
had  made,  and  almost  repented  the  openness  of  his 
disclosure.  He,  however,  did  what  he  could  to  mod- 
erate the  grief  of  his  friend  and  patron.  "I  do  not 
say  that  there  is  any  engagement  between  them.  Had 
there  been,  Eleanor  would  have  told  me.  I  know  her 
well  enough  to  be  assured  that  she  would  have  done 
so ;  but  I  see  that  they  are  fond  of  each  other ;  and  as 
a  man  and  a  father,  I  have  had  no  objection  to  urge 
against  their  intimacy." 

"  But,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the  bishop,  "  how  are  you 
to  oppose  him,  if  he  is  your  son-in-law?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  oppose  him ;  it  is  he  who  opposes 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER. 


39 


me ;  if  anything  is  to  be  done  in  defence,  I  suppose 

Chadwick  will  do  it.    I  suppose  " 

"Oh,  the  archdeacon  will  see  to  that.  Were  the 
young  man  twice  his  brother-in-law,  the  archdeacon 
will  never  be  deterred  from  doing  what  he  feels  to  be 
right." 

Mr.  Harding  reminded  the  bishop  that  the  arch- 
deacon and  the  reformer  were  not  yet  brothers,  and 
very  probably  never  would  be ;  exacted  from  him  a 
promise  that  Eleanor's  name  should  not  be  mentioned 
in  any  discussion  between  the  father  bishop  and  son 
archdeacon  respecting  the  hospital ;  and  then  took  his 
departure,  leaving  his  poor  old  friend  bewildered, 
amazed,  and  confounded. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


hiram's  bedesmen. 

The  parties  most  interested  in  the  movement  which 
is  about  to  set  Barchester  by  the  ears  were  not  the 
foremost  to  discuss  the  merit  of  the  question,  as  is  often 
the  case ;  but  when  the  bishop,  the  archdeacon,  the 
warden,  the  steward,  and  Messrs.  Cox  and  Cummins 
were  all  busy  with  the  matter,  each  in  his  own  way,  it 
is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Hiram's  bedesmen  them- 
selves were  altogether  passive  spectators.  Finney,  the 
attorney,  had  been  among  them,  asking  sly  questions, 
and  raising  immoderate  hopes,  creating  a  party  hostile 
to  the  warden,  and  establishing  a  corps  in  the  enemy's 
camp,  as  he  figuratively  calls  it  to  himself.  Poor  old 
men!  Whoever  may  be  righted  or  wronged  by  this 
inquiry,  they  at  any  rate  will  assuredly  be  only  injured. 
To  them  it  can  only  be  an  unmixed  evil.  How  can  their 
lot  be  improved?  All  their  wants  are  supplied ;  every 
comfort  is  administered ;  they  have  warm  houses,  good 
clothes,  plentiful  diet,  and  rest  after  a  life  of  labour ; 
and,  above  all,  that  treasure  so  inestimable  in  declining 
years,  a  true  and  kind  friend  to  listen  to  their  sorrows, 
watch  over  their  sickness,  and  administer  comfort  as 
regards  this  world  and  the  world  to  come! 

John  Bold  sometimes  thinks  of  this  when  he  is  talk- 
ing loudly  of  the  rights  of  the  bedesmen  whom  he  has 


Hiram's  bedesmen. 


41 


taken  under  his  protection ;  but  he  quiets  the  sugges- 
tion within  his  breast  with  the  high-sounding  name  of 
justice.  "  Fiat  justitia  ruat  coelum."  These  old  men 
should,  by  rights,  have  one  hundred  pounds  a  year 
instead  of  one  shiUing  and  sixpence  a  day,  and  the 
warden  should  have  two  hundred  or  three  hundred 
pounds  instead  of  eight  hundred  pounds.  What  is  un- 
just must  be  wrong ;  what  is  wrong  should  be  righted ; 
and  if  he  declined  the  task,  who  else  would  do  it? 

"  Each  one  of  you  is  clearly  entitled  to  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year  by  common  law! "  Such  had  been  the 
important  whisper  made  by  Finney  into  the  ears  of 
Abel  Handy,  and  by  him  retailed  to  his  eleven  brethren. 

Too  much  must  not  be  expected  from  the  flesh  and 
blood  even  of  John  Hiram's  bedesmen,  and  the  posi- 
tive promise  of  one  hundred  a  year  to  each  of  the 
twelve  old  men  had  its  way  with  most  of  them.  The 
great  Bunce  was  not  to  be  wiled  away,  and  was  upheld 
in  his  orthodoxy  by  two  adherents.  Abel  Handy,  who 
was  the  leader  of  the  aspirants  after  wealth,  had,  alas, 
a  stronger  following.  No  less  than  five  of  the  twelve 
soon  believed  that  his  views  were  just,  making  with 
their  leader  a  moiety  of  the  hospital.  The  other  three, 
volatile,  unstable  minds,  vacillated  between  the  two 
chieftains,  now  led  away  by  the  hope  of  gold,  now 
anxious  to  propitiate  the  powers  that  still  existed. 

It  had  been  proposed  to  address  a  petition  to  the 
bishop  as  visitor,  praying  his  lordship  to  see  justice 
done  to  the  legal  recipients  of  John  Hiram's  Charity, 
and  to  send  copies  of  this  petition  and  of  the  reply 
it  would  ehcit  to  all  the  leading  London  papers,  and 
thereby  to  obtain  notoriety  for  the  subject.  This  it 
was  thought  would  pave  the  way  for  ulterior  legal  pro- 


42 


THE  WARDEN. 


ceedings.  It  would  have  been  a  great  thing  to  have 
had  the  signatures  and  marks  of  all  the  twelve  injured 
legatees ;  but  this  was  impossible.  Bunce  would  have 
cut  his  hand  off  sooner  than  have  signed  it.  It  was 
then  suggested  by  Finney  that  if  even  eleven  could  be 
induced  to  sanction  the  document,  the  one  obstinate 
recusant  might  have  been  represented  as  unfit  to  judge 
on  such  a  question, — in  fact,  as  being  non  compos  men- 
tis^— and  the  petition  would  have  been  taken  as  rep- 
resenting the  feeling  of  the  men.  But  this  could  not 
be  done:  Bunce's  friends  were  as  firm  as  himself,  and 
as  yet  only  six  crosses  adorned  the  document.  It  was 
the  more  provoking,  as  Bunce  himself  could  write  his 
name  legibly,  and  one  of  those  three  doubting  souls 
had  for  years  boasted  of  like  power,  and  possessed, 
indeed,  a  Bible,  in  which  he  was  proud  to  show  his 
name  written  by  himself  some  thirty  years  ago — Job 
Skulpit."  But  it  was  thought  that  Job  Skulpit,  having 
forgotten  his  scholarship,  on  that  account  recoiled  from 
the  petition,  and  that  the  other  doubters  would  follow 
as  he  led  them.  A  petition  signed  by  half  the  hospital 
would  have  but  a  poor  effect. 

It  was  in  Skulpit's  room  that  the  petition  was  now 
lying,  waiting  such  additional  signatures  as  Abel  Handy, 
by  his  eloquence,  could  obtain  for  it.  The  six  marks 
it  bore  were  duly  attested,  thus : 

his  his  his 

Abel  4- Handy,    Gregy  + Moody,    Mathew  +  Spriggs, 
mark  mark  mark 

&c.,  and  places  were  duly  designated  in  pencil  for 
those  brethren  who  were  now  expected  to  join.  For 
Skulpit  alone  was  left  a  spot  on  which  his  genuine  sig- 


hiram's  bedesmen. 


43 


nature  might  be  written  in  fair  clerklike  style.  Handy- 
had  brought  in  the  document,  and  spread  it  out  on  the 
small  deal  table,  and  was  now  standing  by  it  persua- 
sive and  eager.  Moody  had  followed  with  an  inkhom, 
carefully  left  behind  by  Finney ;  and  Spriggs  bore  aloft, 
as  though  it  were  a  sword,  a  well-worn  ink-black  pen, 
which  from  time  to  time  he  endeavoured  to  thrust  into 
Skulpit's  unwilling  hand. 

With  the  learned  man  were  his  two  abettors  in  inde- 
cision, William  Gazy  and  Jonathan  Crumple.  If  ever 
the  petition  were  to  be  forwaraed,  now  was  the  time ; — 
so  said  Mr.  Finney ;  and  great  was  the  anxiety  on  the 
part  of  those  whose  one  hundred  pounds  a  year,  as  they 
believed,  mainly  depended  on  the  document  in  question. 

**  To  be  kept  out  of  all  that  money,"  as  the  avaricious 
Moody  had  muttered  to  his  friend  Handy,  "  by  an  old 
fool  saying  that  he  can  write  his  own  name  like  his 
betters!" 

"  Well,  Job,"  said  Handy,  trying  to  impart  to  his 
own  sour,  ill-omened  visage  a  smile  of  approbation,  in 
which  he  greatly  failed ;  "  so  you  're  ready  now,  Mr. 
Finney  says ;  here 's  the  place ;  d'ye  see ; " — and  he 
put  his  huge  brown  finger  down  on  the  dirty  paper ; — 
"  name  or  mark,  it 's  all  one.  Come  along,  old  boy  ; 
if  so  be  we  're  to  have  the  spending  of  this  money,  why 
the  sooner  the  better ; — that 's  my  maxim." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Moody.  "  We  a'n't  none  of  us  so 
young ;  we  can't  stay  waiting  for  old  Catgut  no  longer." 

It  was  thus  these  miscreants  named  our  excellent 
friend.  The  nickname  he  could  easily  have  forgiven, 
but  the  allusion  to  the  divine  source  of  all  his  melodi- 
ous joy  would  have  irritated  even  him.  Let  us  hope 
he  never  knew  the  insult. 


44 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  Only  think,  old  Billy  Gazy,"  said  Spriggs,  who  re- 
joiced in  greater  youth  than  his  brethren,  but  having 
fallen  into  a  fire  when  drunk,  had  had  one  eye  burnt 
out,  one  cheek  burnt  through,  and  one  arm  nearly 
burnt  off,  and  who,  therefore,  in  regard  to  personal 
appearance,  was  not  the  most  prepossessing  of  men, 
"a  hundred  a  year,  and  all  to  spend;  only  think,  old 
Billy  Gazy;"  and  he  gave  a  hideous  grin  that  showed 
off  his  misfortunes  to  their  full  extent. 

Old  Billy  Gazy  was  not  alive  to  much  enthusiasm. 
Even  these  golden  prospects  did  not  arouse  him  to  do 
more  than  rub  his  poor  old  bleared  eyes  with  the  cuff 
of  his  bedesman's  gown,  and  gently  mutter ;  "  he  did  n't 
know,  not  he ;  he  did  n't  know." 

"But  you  'd  know,  Jonathan,"  continued  Spriggs, 
turning  to  the  other  friend  of  Skulpit's,  who  was  sitting 
on  a  stool  by  the  table,  gazing  vacantly  at  the  petition. 
Jonathan  Crumple  was  a  meek,  mild  man,  who  had 
known  better  days ;  his  means  had  been  wasted  by  bad 
children,  who  had  made  his  life  wretched  till  he  had 
been  received  into  the  hospital,  of  which  he  had  not 
long  been  a  member.  Since  that  day  he  had  known 
neither  sorrow  nor  trouble,  and  this  attempt  to  fill  him 
with  new  hopes  was,  indeed,  a  cruelty. 

"  A  hundred  a  year 's  a  nice  thing,  for  sartain,  neigh- 
bour Spriggs,"  said  he.  "  I  once  had  nigh  to  that  my- 
self, but  it  did  n't  do  me  no  good."  And  he  gave  a 
low  sigh,  as  he  thought  of  the  children  of  his  own  loins 
who  had  robbed  him. 

"  And  shall  have  again,  Joe,"  said  Handy ;  "  and 
will  have  some  one  to  keep  it  right  and  tight  for  you 
this  time." 

Crumple  sighed  again.    He  had  learned  the  impo- 


Hiram's  bedesmen. 


45 


tency  of  worldly  wealth,  and  would  have  been  satisfied, 
if  left  untempted,  to  have  remained  happy  with  one  and 
sixpence  a  day. 

"  Come,  Skulpit,"  repeated  Handy,  getting  impatient, 
"you  're  not  going  to  go  along  with  old  Bunce  in 
helping  that  parson  to  rob  us  all.  Take  the  pen, 
man,  and  right  yourself.  Well ; "  he  added,  seeing  that 
Skulpit  still  doubted,  "to  see  a  man  as  is  afraid  to 
stand  by  hisself,  is,  to  my  thinking,  the  meanest  thing 
as  is." 

"  Sink  them  all  for  parsons,  says  I,"  growled  Moody ; 
"  hungry  beggars,  as  never  thinks  their  bellies  full  till 
they  have  robbed  all  and  everything! " 

"  Who 's  to  harm  you,  man?  "  argued  Spriggs.  "  Let 
them  look  never  so  black  at  you,  they  can't  get  you 
put  out  when  you  're  once  in; — no,  not  old  Catgut, 
with  Calves  to  help  him !  *'  I  am  sorry  to  say  the  arch- 
deacon himself  was  designated  by  this  scurrilous  allu- 
sion to  his  nether  person. 

"  A  hundred  a  year  to  win,  and  nothing  to  lose," 
continued  Handy,  "my  eyes! — Well,  how  a  man 's  to 
doubt  about  sich  a  bit  of  cheese  as  that  passes  me. 
But  some  men  is  timorous, — some  men  is  born  with  no 
pluck  in  them, — some  men  is  cowed  at  the  very  first 
sight  of  a  gentleman's  coat  and  waistcoat." 

Oh,  Mr.  Harding,  if  you  had  but  taken  the  arch- 
deacon's advice  in  that  disputed  case,  when  Joe  Mut- 
ters was  this  ungrateful  demagogue's  rival  candidate! 

"  Afraid  of  a  parson,"  growled  Moody,  with  a  look 
of  ineffable  scorn.  "  I  tell  ye  what  I 'd  be  afraid  of ; 
— I 'd  be  afraid  of  not  getting  nothing  from  'em  but 
just  what  I  could  take  by  might  and  right ; — that 's  the 
most  I 'd  be  afraid  on  of  any  parson  of  'em  all." 


46 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  But,"  said  Skulpit,  apologetically,  "  Mr.  Harding 's 
not  so  bad.  He  did  give  us  twopence  a  day,  did  n't 
he  now?  " 

"Twopence  a  day!"  exclaimed  Spriggs  with  scorn, 
opening  awfully  the  red  cavern  of  his  lost  eye. 

"  Twopence  a  day! "  muttered  Moody  with  a  curse ; 
"sink  his  twopence!" 

"  Twopence  a  day ! "  exclaimed  Handy ;  "  and  I 'm 
to  go,  hat  in  hand,  and  thank  a  chap  for  twopence  a 
day,  when  he  owes  me  a  hundred  pounds  a  year.  No, 
thank  ye ;  that  may  do  for  you,  but  it  won't  for  me. 
Come,  I  say,  Skulpit,  are  you  a  going  to  put  your  mark 
to  this  here  paper,  or  are  you  not?  " 

Skulpit  looked  round  in  wretched  indecision  to  his 
two  friends.    "What  d'ye  think,  Bill  Gazy?  "  said  he. 

But  Billy  Gazy  could  n't  think.  He  made  a  noise 
like  the  bleating  of  an  old  sheep,  which  was  intended 
to  express  the  agony  of  his  doubt,  and  again  muttered 
that  *  he  did  n't  know.' 

"  Take  hold,  you  old  cripple,"  said  Handy,  thrust- 
ing the  pen  into  poor  Billy's  hand :  "  there,  so — ugh ! 
you  old  fool,  you  've  been  and  smeared  it  all, — 
there, — that  '11  do  for  you; — that  's  as  good  as  the 
best  name  as  ever  was  written:"  and  a  big  blotch  of 
ink  was  presumed  to  represent  Billy  Gazy's  acquies- 
cence. 

"  Now,  Jonathan,"  said  Handy,  turning  to  Crumple. 

"  A  hundred  a  year 's  a  nice  thing,  for  sartain,"  again 
argued  Crumple.  "  Well,  neighboiu:  Skulpit,  how 's  it 
to  be?  " 

"  Oh,  please  yourself,"  said  Skulpit :  "  please  your- 
self, and  you  '11  please  me." 

The  pen  was  thrust  into  Crumple's  hand,  and  a  faint, 


Hiram's  bedesmen. 


47 


wandering,  meaningless  sign  was  made,  betokening 
such  sanction  and  authority  as  Jonathan  Crumple  was 
able  to  convey. 

"Come,  Joe,"  said  Handy,  softened  by  success, 
"  don't  let  'em  have  to  say  that  old  Bunce  has  a  man 
like  you  under  his  thumb ; — a  man  that  always  holds  his 
head  in  the  hospital  as  high  as  Bunce  himself,  though 
you  're  never  axed  to  drink  wine,  and  sneak,  and  tell 
lies  about  your  betters,  as  he  does." 

Skulpit  held  the  pen,  and  made  little  flourishes  with 
it  in  the  air,  but  still  hesitated. 

"  And  if  you  '11  be  said  by  me,"  continued  Handy, 
"  you  '11  not  write  your  name  to  it  at  all,  but  just  put 
your  mark  like  the  others;" — the  cloud  began  to  clear 
from  Skulpit's  brow; — "we  all  know  you  can  do  it  if 
you  like,  but  maybe  you  would  n't  like  to  seem  uppish, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  the  mark  would  be  best,"  said  Skulpit.  "  One 
name  and  the  rest  marks  would  n't  look  well,  would 
it?" 

"  The  worst  in  the  world,"  said  Handy ;  "  there — 
there;"  and  stooping  over  the  petition,  the  learned 
clerk  made  a  huge  cross  on  the  place  left  for  his  signa- 
ture. 

"  That 's  the  game,"  said  Handy,  triumphantly  pock- 
eting the  petition ;  "  we  're  all  in  a  boat  now,  that  is, 
the  nine  of  us ;  and  as  for  old  Bunce  and  his  cronies, 

they  may  "  But  as  he  was  hobbling  off  to  the  door, 

with  a  crutch  on  one  side  and  a  stick  on  the  other,  he 
was  met  by  Bunce  himself. 

"Well,  Handy,  and  what  may  old  Bunce  do?  "  said 
the  grey-haired,  upright  senior. 

Handy  muttered  something,  and  was  departing ;  but 


48 


THE  WARDEN. 


he  was  stopped  in  the  doorway  by  the  huge  frame  of 
the  new-comer. 

"  You 've  been  doing  no  good  here,  Abel  Handy," 
said  he,  " 't  is  plain  to  see  that ;  and 't  is  n't  much  good, 
I 'm  thinking,  you  ever  do." 

"  I  mind  my  own  business,  Master  Bunce,"  muttered 
the  other,  and  do  you  do  the  same.  It  a'n't  nothing 
to  you  what  I  does; — and  your  spying  and  poking 
here  won't  do  no  good  nor  yet  no  harm." 

I  suppose  then,  Joe,"  continued  Bunce,  not  notic- 
ing his  opponent,  if  the  truth  must  out,  you  Ve  stuck 
your  name  to  that  petition  of  theirs  at  last." 

Skulpit  looked  as  though  he  were  about  to  sink  into 
the  ground  with  shame. 

What  is  it  to  you  what  he  signs?  "  said  Handy.  "  I 
suppose  if  we  all  wants  to  ax  for  our  own,  we  need  n't 
ax  leave  of  you  first,  Mr.  Bunce,  big  a  man  as  you 
are ;  and  as  to  your  sneaking  in  here,  into  Job's  room 
when  he 's  busy,  and  where  you  're  not  wanted  " 

"I  've  knowed  Joe  Skulpit,  man  and  boy,  sixty 
years,"  said  Bunce,  looking  at  the  man  of  whom  he 
spoke,  "  and  that 's  ever  since  the  day  he  was  bom.  I 
knowed  the  mother  that  bore  him,  when  she  and  I 
were  little  wee  things,  picking  daisies  together  in  the 
close  yonder ;  and  I 've  lived  under  the  same  roof  with 
him  more  nor  ten  years ;  and  after  that  I  may  come 
into  his  room  without  axing  leave,  and  yet  no  sneaking 
neither." 

"So  you  can,  Mr.  Bunce,"  said  Skulpit;  "so  you 
can,  any  hour,  day  or  night." 

"  And  I 'm  free  also  to  tell  him  my  mind,"  continued 
Bunce,  looking  at  the  one  man  and  addressing  the 
other ;  "  and  I  tell  him  now  that  he 's  done  a  foolish 


hiram's  bedesmen. 


49 


and  a  wrong  thing.  He 's  turned  his  back  upon  one 
who  is  his  best  friend ;  and  is  playing  the  game  of 
others,  who  care  nothing  for  him,  whether  he  be  poor 
or  rich,  well  or  ill,  alive  or  dead.  A  hundred  a  year? 
Are  the  lot  of  you  soft  enough  to  think  that  if  a  hun- 
dred a  year  be  to  be  given,  it 's  the  Hkes  of  you  that 
will  get  it?  " — and  he  pointed  to  Billy  Gazy,  Spriggs, 
and  Crumple.  "  Did  any  of  us  ever  do  anything  worth 
half  the  money?  Was  it  to  make  gentlemen  of  us  we 
were  brought  in  here,  when  all  the  world  turned  against 
us,  and  we  could  n't  longer  earn  our  daily  bread? 
A'n't  you  all  as  rich  in  your  ways  as  he  in  his?  " — and 
the  orator  pointed  to  the  side  on  which  the  warden 
lived.  A'n't  you  getting  all  you  hoped  for ;  ay,  and 
more  than  you  hoped  for?  Would  n't  each  of  you 
have  given  the  dearest  limb  of  his  body  to  secure  that 
which  now  makes  you  so  unthankful?  " 

"  We  wants  what  John  Hiram  left  us,"  said  Handy. 
"  We  wants  what 's  ourn  by  law.  It  don't  matter  what 
we  expected.  What 's  ourn  by  law  should  be  ourn, 
and  by  goles  we  '11  have  it." 

"  Law! "  said  Bunce,  with  all  the  scorn  he  knew  how 
to  command, — "  law!  Did  ye  ever  know  a  poor  man 
yet  was  the  better  for  law,  or  for  a  lawyer?  Will  Mr. 
Finney  ever  be  as  good  to  you.  Job,  as  that  man  has 
been  ?  Will  he  see  to  you  when  you  're  sick,  and  com- 
fort you  when  you  're  wretched?    Will  he  " 

"  No,  nor  give  you  port  wine,  old  boy,  on  cold  win- 
ter nights!  he  won't  do  that,  will  he?  "  asked  Handy; 
and  laughing  at  the  severity  of  his  own  wit,  he  and  his 
colleagues  retired,  carrying  with  them,  however,  the 
now  powerful  petition. 

There  is  no  help  for  spilt  milk;  and  Mr.  Bunce 
4 


5° 


THE  WARDEN. 


could  only  retire  to  his  own  room,  disgusted  at  the 
frailty  of  human  nature.  Job  Skulpit  scratched  his 
head.  Jonathan  Crumple  again  remarked,  that,  'for 
sartain,  sure  a  hundred  a  year  was  very  nice ; ' — and 
Billy  Gazy  again  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  lowly  muttered 
that  *  he  did  n't  know.' 


CHAPTER  V. 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL. 

Though  doubt  and  hesitation  disturbed  the  rest  of 
our  poor  warden,  no  such  weakness  perplexed  the 
nobler  breast  of  his  son-in-law.  As  the  indomitable 
cock  preparing  for  the  combat  sharpens  his  spurs, 
shakes  his  feathers,  and  erects  his  comb,  so  did  the 
archdeacon  arrange  his  weapons  for  the  coming  war, 
without  misgiving  and  without  fear.  That  he  was 
fully  confident  of  the  justice  of  his  cause  let  no  one 
doubt.  Many  a  man  can  fight  his  batde  with  good 
courage,  but  with  a  doubting  conscience.  Such  was 
not  the  case  with  Dr.  Grantly.  He  did  not  beUeve  in 
the  Gospel  with  more  assurance  than  he  did  in  the 
sacred  justice  of  all  ecclesiastical  revenues.  When  he 
put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  to  defend  the  income  of 
the  present  and  future  precentors  of  Barchester,  he 
was  animated  by  as  strong  a  sense  of  a  holy  cause 
as  that  which  gives  courage  to  a  missionary  in  Africa, 
or  enables  a  sister  of  mercy  to  give  up  the  pleasures  of 
the  world  for  the  wards  of  a  hospital.  He  was  about 
to  defend  the  holy  of  hoHes  from  the  touch  of  the  pro- 
fane ;  to  guard  the  citadel  of  his  church  from  the  most 
rampant  of  its  enemies ;  to  put  on  his  good  armour  in 
the  best  of  fights ;  and  secure,  if  possible,  the  comforts 
of  his  creed  for  coming  generations  of  ecclesiastical 


52 


THE  WARDEN. 


dignitaries.  Such  a  work  required  no  ordinary  vigour  ; 
and  the  archdeacon  was,  therefore,  extraordinarily  vig- 
orous. It  demanded  a  buoyant  courage,  and  a  heart 
happy  in  its  toil ;  and  the  archdeacon's  heart  was  happy, 
and  his  courage  was  buoyant. 

He  knew  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  animate  his 
father-in-law  with  feelings  like  his  own,  but  this  did  not 
much  disturb  him.  He  preferred  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
the  battle  alone,  and  did  not  doubt  that  the  warden 
would  resign  himself  into  his  hands  with  passive  sub- 
mission. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Chadwick,"  he  said,  walking  into  the 
steward's  office  a  day  or  two  after  the  signing  of  the 
petition  as  commemorated  in  the  last  chapter :  any- 
thing from  Cox  and  Cummins  this  morning?  "  Mr. 
Chadwick  handed  him  a  letter,  which  he  read,  stroking 
the  tight-gaitered  calf  of  his  right  leg  as  he  did  so. 
Messrs.  Cox  and  Cummins  merely  said  that  they  had 
as  yet  received  no  notice  from  their  adversaries ;  that 
they  could  recommend  no  preliminary  steps ;  but  that 
should  any  proceeding  really  be  taken  by  the  bedes- 
men, it  would  be  expedient  to  consult  that  very  emi- 
nent Queen's  Counsel,  Sir  Abraham^HaphazanL 

"  I  quite  agree  with  them,"  said  Dr.  Grantly,  refold- 
ing the  letter.  "  I  perfectly  agree  with  them.  Hap- 
hazard is  no  doubt  the  best  man ;  a  thorough  church- 
man, a  sound  Conservative,  and  in  every  respect  the 
best  man  we  could  get.  He  *s  in  the  house,  too,  which 
is  a  great  thing." 

Mr.  Chadwick  quite  agreed. 

"  You  remember  how  completely  he  put  down  that 
scoundrel  Horseman  about  the  Bishop  of  Beverley's 
income ;  how  completely  he  set  them  all  adrift  in  the 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  53 

earl's  case."  Since  the  question  of  St.  Cross  had  been 
mooted  by  the  public,  one  noble  lord  had  become 
"  the  earl^''  par  excellence^  in  the  doctor's  estimation. 
"  How  he  silenced  that  fellow  at  Rochester.  Of  course 
we  must  have  Haphazard ;  and  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Mr. 
Chadwick,  we  must  take  care  to  be  in  time,  or  the 
other  party  will  forestall  us." 

With  all  his  admiration  for  Sir  Abraham,  the  doctor 
seemed  to  think  it  not  impossible  that  that  great  man 
might  be  induced  to  lend  his  gigantic  powers  to  the 
side  of  the  church's  enemies. 

Having  settled  this  point  to  his  satisfaction,  the 
doctor  stepped  down  to  the  hospital,  to  learn  how  mat- 
ters were  going  on  there  ;  and  as  he  walked  across  the 
hallowed  close,  and  looked  up  at  the  ravens  who  cawed 
with  a  peculiar  reverence  as  he  wended  his  way,  he 
thought  with  increased  acerbity  of  those  whose  impiety 
would  venture  to  disturb  the  goodly  grace  of  cathedral 
institutions. 

And  who  has  not  felt  the  same?  We  believe  that 
Mr.  Horsman  himself  would  relent,  and  the  spirit  of 
Sir  Benjamin  Hall  give  way,  were  those  great  reform- 
ers to  allow  themselves  to  stroll  by  moonhght  round 
the  towers  of  some  of  our  ancient  churches.  Who 
would  not  feel  charity  for  a  prebendary,  when  walking 
the  quiet  length  of  that  long  aisle  at  Winchester,  look- 
ing at  those  decent  houses,  that  trim  grassplat,  and 
feeling,  as  one  must,  the  solemn,  orderly  comfort  of  the 
spot !  Who  could  be  hard  upon  a  dean  while  wander- 
ing round  the  sweet  close  of  Hereford,  and  owning  that 
in  that  precinct,  tone  and  colour,  design  and  form, 
solemn  tower  and  storied  window,  are  all  in  unison, 
and  all  perfect !    Who  could  lie  basking  in  the  cloisters 


54 


THE  WARDEN. 


of  Salisbury,  and  gaze  on  Jewel's  library  and  that  un- 
equalled spire,  without  feeling  that  bishops  should  some- 
times be  rich! 

The  tone  of  our  archdeacon's  mind  must  not  astonish 
us ;  it  has  been  the  growth  of  centuries  of  church  as- 
cendency ;  and  though  some  fungi  now  disfigure  the 
tree,  though  there  be  much  dead  wood,  for  how  much 
good  fruit  have  not  we  to  be  thankful?  Who,  without 
remorse,  can  batter  down  the  dead  branches  of  an  old 
oak,  now  useless,  but,  ah!  still  so  beautiful,  or  drag 
out  the  fragments  of  the  ancient  forest,  without  feehng 
that  they  sheltered  the  younger  plants,  to  which  they 
are  now  summoned  to  give  way  in  a  tone  so  peremp- 
tory and  so  harsh? 

The  archdeacon,  with  all  his  virtues,  was  not  a  man 
of  delicate  feeling ;  and  after  having  made  his  morn- 
ing salutations  in  the  warden's  drawing-room,  he  did 
not  scruple  to  commence  an  attack  on  'pestilent' 
John  Bold  in  the  presence  of  Miss  Harding,  though 
he  rightly  guessed  that  that  lady  was  not  indifferent  to 
the  name  of  his  enemy. 

"  Nelly,  my  dear,  fetch  me  my  spectacles  from  the 
back  room,"  said  her  father,  anxious  to  save  both  h-er 
blushes  and  her  feelings. 

Eleanor  brought  the  spectacles,  while  her  father  was 
trying,  in  ambiguous  phrases,  to  explain  to  her  too- 
practical  brother-in-law  that  it  might  be  as  well  not  to 
say  anything  about  Bold  before  her,  and  then  retreated. 
Nothing  had  been  explained  to  her  about  Bold  and  the 
hospital ;  but,  with  a  woman's  instinct,  she  knew  that 
things  were  going  wrong. 

"  We  must  soon  be  doing  something,"  commenced 
the  archdeacon,  wiping  his  brows  with  a  large,  bright- 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  55 

coloured  handkerchief,  for  he  had  felt  busy,  and  had 
walked  quick,  and  it  was  a  broiling  summer's  day. 
"  Of  course  you  have  heard  of  the  petition?  " 

Mr.  Harding  owned,  somewhat  unwillingly,  that  he 
had  heard  of  it. 

"  Well! "  The  archdeacon  looked  for  some  expres- 
sion of  opinion,  but  none  coming,  he  continued, — "  We 
must  be  doing  something,  you  know ;  we  must  n't  al- 
low these  people  to  cut  the  ground  from  under  us 
while  we  sit  looking  on."  The  archdeacon,  who  was 
a  practical  man,  allowed  himself  the  use  of  every-day 
expressive  modes  of  speech  when  among  his  closest  in- 
timates, though  no  one  could  soar  into  a  more  intricate 
labyrinth  of  refined  phraseology  when  the  church  was 
the  subject,  and  his  lower  brethren  were  his  auditors. 

The  warden  still  looked  mutely  in  his  face,  making 
the  slightest  possible  passes  with  an  imaginary  fiddle 
bow,  and  stopping,  as  he  did  so,  sundry  imaginary 
strings  with  the  fingers  of  his  other  hand.  'T  was  his 
constant  consolation  in  conversational  troubles.  While 
these  vexed  him  sorely,  the  passes  would  be  short  and 
slow,  and  the  upper  hand  would  not  be  seen  to  work ; 
nay  the  strings  on  which  it  operated  would  sometimes 
lie  concealed  in  the  musician's  pocket,  and  the  instru- 
ment on  which  he  played  would  be  beneath  his  chair. 
But  as  his  spirit  warmed  to  the  subject, — as  his  trusting 
heart,  looking  to  the  bottom  of  that  which  vexed  him, 
would  see  its  clear  way  out, — he  would  rise  to  a  higher 
melody,  sweep  the  unseen  strings  with  a  bolder  hand, 
and  swiftly  fingering  the  cords  from  his  neck,  down 
along  his  waistcoat,  and  up  again  to  his  very  ear,  create 
an  ecstatic  strain  of  perfect  music,  audible  to  himself 
and  to  St.  Cecilia,  and  not  without  effect. 


56 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  I  quite  agree  with  Cox  and  Cummins,"  continued 
the  archdeacon.  "  They  say  we  must  secure  Sir  Abra- 
ham Haphazard.  I  shall  not  have  the  slighest  fear  in 
leaving  the  case  in  Sir  Abraham's  hands."  The  warden 
played  the  slowest  and  saddest  of  tunes.  It  was  but 
a  dirge  on  one  string.  "  I  think  Sir  Abraham  will  not 
be  long  in  letting  Master  Bold  know  what  he 's  about. 
I  fancy  I  hear  Sir  Abraham  cross-questioning  him  at 
the  Common  Pleas."  The  warden  thought  of  his  in- 
come being  thus  discussed,  his  modest  hfe,  his  daily 
habits,  and  his  easy  work ;  and  nothing  issued  from 
that  single  cord  but  a  low  wail  of  sorrow.  "  I  suppose 
they  've  sent  this  petition  up  to  my  father."  The 
warden  did  n't  know ;  he  imagined  they  would  do  so 
this  very  day.  "  What  I  can't  understand  is,  how  you 
let  them  do  it,  with  such  a  command  as  you  have  in 
the  place,  or  should  have  with  such  a  man  as  Bunce. 
I  cannot  understand  why  you  let  them  do  it." 

"  Do  what?  "  asked  the  warden. 

"  Why,  listen  to  this  fellow  Bold,  and  that  other  low 
pettifogger,  Finney; — and  get  up  this  petition  too. 
Why  did  n't  you  tell  Bunce  to  destroy  the  petition  ?  " 

''That  would  have  been  hardly  wise,"  said  the 
warden. 

"  Wise ; — yes,  it  would  have  been  very  wise  if  they 'd 
done  it  among  themselves.  I  must  go  up  to  the  palace 
and  answer  it  now,  I  suppose.  It 's  a  very  short  answer 
they  '11  get,  I  can  tell  you." 

But  why  should  n't  they  petition,  doctor?  " 

"Why  should  n't  they!"  responded  the  archdeacon, 
in  a  loud,  brazen  voice,  as  though  all  the  men  in  the 
hospital  were  expected  to  hear  him  through  the  walls ; 
"why  should  n't  they?    I  '11  let  them  know  why  they 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  57 

should  n't.  By-the-by,  warden,  I 'd  like  to  say  a  few 
words  to  them  all  together." 

The  warden's  mind  misgave  him,  and  even  for  a 
moment  he  forgot  to  play.  He  by  no  means  wished 
to  delegate  to  his  son-in-law  his  place  and  authority  of 
warden ;  he  had  expressly  determined  not  to  interfere 
in  any  step  which  the  men  might  wish  to  take  in  the 
matter  under  dispute ;  he  was  most  anxious  neither  to 
accuse  them  nor  to  defend  himself.  All  these  things 
he  was  aware  the  archdeacon  would  do  in  his  behalf, 
and  that  not  in  the  mildest  manner ;  and  yet  he  knew 
not  how  to  refuse  the  permission  requested.  "  I 'd  so 
much  sooner  remain  quiet  in  the  matter,"  said  he,  in 
an  apologetic  voice. 

"  Quiet ! "  said  the  archdeacon,  still  speaking  with  his 
brazen  trumpet ;     do  you  wish  to  be  ruined  in  quiet?  " 

"Why;  if  I  am  to  be  ruined,  certainly." 

"  Nonsense,  warden ;  I  tell  you  something  must  be 
done.  We  must  act ;  just  let  me  ring  the  bell,  and 
send  the  men  word  that  I  '11  speak  to  them  in  the 
quad." 

Mr.  Harding  knew  not  how  to  resist,  and  the  disa- 
greeable order  was  given.  The  quad,  as  it  was  famil- 
iarly called,  was  a  small  quadrangle,  open  on  one  side 
to  the  river,  and  surrounded  on  the  others  by  the  high 
wall  of  Mr.  Harding's  garden,  by  one  gable  end  of 
Mr.  Harding's  house,  and  by  the  end  of  the  row  of 
buildings  which  formed  the  residences  of  the  bedes- 
men. It  was  flagged  all  round,  and  the  centre  was 
stoned ;  small  stone  gutters  ran  from  the  four  comers 
of  the  square  to  a  grating  in  the  centre  ;  and  attached 
to  the  end  of  Mr.  Harding's  house  was  a  conduit  with 
four  cocks  covered  over  from  the  weather,  at  which 


58 


THE  WARDEN. 


the  old  men  got  their  water,  and  very  generally  per- 
formed their  morning  toilet.  It  was  a  quiet,  sombre 
place,  shaded  over  by  the  trees  of  the  warden's  garden. 
On  the  side  towards  the  river  there  stood  a  row  of  stone 
seats,  on  which  the  old  men  would  sit  and  gaze  at  the 
little  fish,  as  they  flitted  by  in  the  running  stream.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  river  was  a  rich,  green  meadow, 
running  up  to  and  joining  the  deanery,  and  as  little 
open  to  the  public  as  the  garden  of  the  dean  itself. 
Nothing,  therefore,  could  be  more  private  than  the 
quad  of  the  hospital ;  and  it  was  there  that  the  arch- 
deacon determined  to  convey  to  them  his  sense  of  their 
refractory  proceedings. 

The  servant  soon  brought  in  word  that  the  men 
were  assembled  in  the  quad,  and  the  archdeacon,  big 
with  his  purpose,  rose  to  address  them. 

"  Well,  warden,  of  course  you  're  coming,'*  said  he, 
seeing  that  Mr.  Harding  did  not  prepare  to  follow  him. 
I  wish  you 'd  excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

'*  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  us  have  division  in  the 
camp,"  replied  the  archdeacon.  "  Let  us  have  a  long 
pull  and  a  strong  pull,  but  above  all  a  pull  all  together ; 
come,  warden,  come ;  don't  be  afraid  of  your  duty." 

Mr.  Harding  was  afraid ;  he  was  afraid  that  he  was 
being  led  to  do  that  which  was  not  his  duty.  He  was 
not,  however,  strong  enough  to  resist,  so  he  got  up  and 
followed  his  son-in-law. 

The  old  men  were  assembled  in  groups  in  the  quad- 
rangle ; — eleven  of  them  at  least,  for  poor  old  Johnny 
Bell  was  bed-ridden,  and  could  n't  come ;  he  had,  how- 
ever, put  his  mark  to  the  petition,  as  one  of  Handy's 
earliest  followers.  'T  is  true  he  could  not  move  from 
the  bed  where  he  lay ;  't  is  true  he  had  no  friend  on 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  59 

earth  but  those  whom  the  hospital  contained ;  and  of 
those  the  warden  and  his  daughter  were  the  most  con- 
stant and  most  appreciated ;  't  is  true  that  everything 
was  administered  to  him  which  his  faiHng  body  could 
require,  or  which  his  faint  appetite  could  enjoy;  but 
still  his  dull  eye  had  glistened  for  a  moment  at  the  idea 
of  possessing  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  "to  his  own 
cheek,"  as  Abel  Handy  had  eloquently  expressed  it ; 
and  poor  old  Johnny  Bell  had  greedily  put  his  mark  to 
the  petition. 

When  the  two  clergymen  appeared,  they  all  uncov- 
ered their  heads.  Handy  was  slow  to  do  it,  and  hesi- 
tated ;  but  the  black  coat  and  waistcoat,  of  which  he 
had  spoken  so  irreverently  in  Skulpit's  room,  had  its 
effect  even  on  him,  and  he  too  doffed  his  hat.  Bunce, 
advancing  before  the  others,  bowed  lowly  to  the  arch- 
deacon, and  with  affectionate  reverence  expressed  his 
wish,  that  the  warden  and  Miss  Eleanor  were  quite 
well ;  "  and  the  doctor's  lady,"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  archdeacon,  "  and  the  children  at  Plumstead,  and 
my  lord ;"  and  having  made  his  speech,  he  also  retired 
among  the  others,  and  took  his  place  with  the  rest  upon 
the  stone  benches. 

As  the  archdeacon  stood  up  to  make  his  speech, 
erect  in  the  middle  of  that  little  square,  he  looked  like 
an  ecclesiastical  statue  placed  there,  as  a  fitting  imper- 
sonation of  the  church  militant  here  on  earth  ;  his  shovel 
hat,  large,  new,  and  well-pronounced,  a  churchman's  hat 
in  every  inch,  declared  the  profession  as  plainly  as 
does  the  Quaker's  broad  brim;  his  heavy  eyebrows, 
large  open  eyes,  and  full  mouth  and  chin  expressed  the 
sohdity  of  his  order ;  the  broad  chest,  amply  covered 
with  fine  cloth,  told  how  well  to  do  was  its  estate ;  one 


6o 


THE  WARDEN. 


hand  ensconced  within  his  pocket,  evinced  the  prac- 
tical hold  which  our  mother  church  keeps  on  her  tem- 
poral possessions ;  and  the  other,  loose  for  action,  was 
ready  to  fight  if  need  be  in  her  defence ;  and,  below 
these,  the  decorous  breeches,  and  neat  black  gaiters 
showing  so  admirably  that  well-turned  leg,  betokened 
the  stability,  the  decency,  the  outward  beauty  and  grace 
of  our  church  establishment. 

"  Now,  my  men,"  he  began,  when  he  had  settled 
himself  well  in  his  position,  "  I  want  to  say  a  few  words 
to  you.  Your  good  friend,  the  warden  here,  and  my- 
self, and  my  lord  the  bishop,  on  whose  behalf  I  wish 
to  speak  to  you,  would  all  be  very  sorry,  very  sorry 
indeed,  that  you  should  have  any  just  ground  of  com- 
plaint. Any  just  ground  of  complaint  on  your  part 
would  be  removed  at  once  by  the  warden,  or  by  his 
lordship,  or  by  me  on  his  behalf,  without  the  necessity 
of  any  petition  on  your  part."  Here  the  orator  stopped 
for  a  moment,  expecting  that  some  Httle  murmurs  of 
applause  would  show  that  the  weakest  of  the  men  were 
beginning  to  give  way ;  but  no  such  murmurs  came. 
Bunce,  himself,  even  sat  with  closed  lips,  mute  and 
unsatisfactory.  "  Without  the  necessity  of  any  petition 
at  all,"  he  repeated.  "  I 'm  told  you  have  addressed  a 
petition  to  my  lord."  He  paused  for  a  reply  from  the 
men,  and  after  a  while,  Handy  plucked  up  courage, 
and  said,  "  Yes,  we  has." 

"  You  have  addressed  a  petition  to  my  lord,  in  which, 
as  I  am  informed,  you  express  an  opinion  that  you  do 
not  receive  from  Hiram's  estate  all  that  is  your  due." 
Here  most  of  the  men  expressed  their  assent.  "  Now 
what  is  it  you  ask  for?  What  is  it  you  want  that  you 
have  n't  got  here?    What  is  it  " 


6i 


i!  And  you  talk  about  John  Hiram  s 
>v..; .  Vv  ntn  John  Hiram  built  a  hospital  for  worn-out 
old  men,  worn-out  old  labouring  men,  infirm  old  men 
past  their  work,  cpp^te^Wy^^-^^^^^j  ^^'^^^^ 
like,  do  '        itlemen  o£ 

them>  to  give  a 

■"haps 


.IS  these  should  come  in  here  in  their 
poveiLy  aua  vvj  ccchedness,  and  find  within  these 
belter  and  food  before  their  death,  and  a  little 
'  make  their  peace  with  God.  That 

■-t.    Youh    ■  '  '  ' 

\'h  ether 


his  intentioii 

;nd  came  from  the  t\ 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  6 1 

"  A  hundred  a  year,"  muttered  old  Moody,  with  a 
voice  as  if  it  came  out  of  the  ground. 

"  A  hundred  a  year  ! "  ejaculated  the  archdeacon 
militant,  defying  the  impudence  of  these  claimants 
with  one  hand  stretched  out  and  closed,  while  with 
the  other  he  tightly  grasped,  and  secured  within  his 
breeches  pocket,  that  symbol  of  the  church's  wealth 
which  his  own  loose  half-crowns  not  unaptly  repre- 
sented. "A  hundred  a  year!  Why,  my  men,  you 
must  be  mad!  And  you  talk  about  John  Hiram's 
will !  When  John  Hiram  built  a  hospital  for  worn-out 
old  men,  worn-out  old  labouring  men,  infirm  old  men 
past  their  work,  cripples,  blind,  bed-ridden,  and  such 
like,  do  you  think  he  meant  to  make  gentlemen  of 
them?  Do  you  think  John  Hiram  intended  to  give  a 
hundred  a  year  to  old  single  men,  who  earned  perhaps 
two  shiUings  or  half-a-crown  a  day  for  themselves  and 
famiHes  in  the  best  of  their  time?  No,  my  men!  I  '11 
tell  you  what  John  Hiram  meant;  he  meant  that 
twelve  poor  old  worn-out  labourers,  men  who  could 
no  longer  support  themselves,  who  had  no  friends  to 
support  them,  who  must  starve  and  perish  miserably  if 
not  protected  by  the  hand  of  charity ;  — he  meant  that 
twelve  such  men  as  these  should  come  in  here  in  their 
poverty  and  wretchedness,  and  find  within  these  walls 
shelter  and  food  before  their  death,  and  a  little  leisure 
to  make  their  peace  with  God.  That  was  what  John 
Hiram  meant.  You  have  not  read  John  Hiram's  will, 
and  I  doubt  whether  those  wicked  men  who  are  advis- 
ing you  have  done  so.  I  have  ;  I  know  what  his  will 
was ;  and  I  tell  you  that  that  was  his  will,  and  that 
that  was  his  intention." 

Not  a  sound  came  from  the  eleven  bedesmen,  as 


62 


THE  WARDEN. 


they  sat  listening  to  what,  according  to  the  archdeacon, 
was  their  intended  estate.  They  grimly  stared  upon 
his  burly  figure,  but  did  not  then  express,  by  word  or 
sign,  the  anger  and  disgust  to  which  such  language  was 
sure  to  give  rise. 

Now  let  me  ask  you,"  he  continued  ;  "  do  you  think 
you  are  worse  off  than  John  Hiram  intended  to  make 
you?  Have  you  not  shelter,  and  food,  and  leisure? 
Have  you  not  much  more?  Have  you  not  every  in- 
dulgence which  you  are  capable  of  enjoying?  Have 
you  not  twice  better  food,  twice  a  better  bed,  ten  times 
more  money  in  your  pocket  than  you  were  ever  able 
to  earn  for  yourselves  before  you  were  lucky  enough 
to  get  into  this  place?  And  now  you  sent  a  petition 
to  the  bishop,  asking  for  a  hundred  pounds  a  year! 
I  tell  you  what,  my  friends ;  you  are  deluded,  and 
made  fools  of  by  wicked  men  who  are  acting  for  their 
own  ends.  You  will  never  get  a  hundred  pence  a  year 
more  than  what  you  have  now.  It  is  very  possible  that 
you  may  get  less ;  it  is  very  possible  that  my  lord,  the 
bishop,  and  your  warden,  may  make  changes  " 

**  No,  no,  no,"  interrupted  Mr.  Harding,  who  had 
been  listening  with  indescribable  misery  to  the  tirade  of 
his  son-in-law ;  "  no,  my  friends.  I  want  no  changes ; 
— at  least  no  changes  that  shall  make  you  worse  off  than 
you  now  are,  as  long  as  you  and  I  live  together." 

"  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  Bunce ;  and 
"  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Harding ;  God  bless  you,  sir : 
we  know  you  was  always  our  friend,"  was  exclaimed 
by  enough  of  the  men  to  make  it  appear  that  the  sen- 
timent was  general. 

The  archdeacon  had  been  interrupted  in  his  speech 
before  he  had  quite  finished  it;  but  he  felt  that  he 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  63 

could  not  recommence  with  dignity  after  this  httle 
ebulHtion,  and  he  led  the  way  back  into  the  garden, 
followed  by  his  father-in-law. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself  within 
the  cool  retreat  of  the  warden's  garden ;  I  think  I 
spoke  to  them  plainly."  And  he  wiped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  brow ;  for  making  a  speech  under  a  broil- 
ing mid-day  sun  in  summer,  in  a  full  suit  of  thick  black 
cloth,  is  warm  work. 

"  Yes,  you  were  plain  enough,"  replied  the  warden, 
in  a  tone  which  did  not  express  approbation. 

"And  that 's  everything,"  said  the  other,  who  was 
clearly  well  satisfied  with  himself ;  "  that 's  everything. 
With  those  sort  of  people  one  must  be  plain,  or  one 
will  not  be  understood.  Now,  I  think  they  did  under- 
stand me ; — I  think  they  knew  what  I  meant." 

The  warden  agreed.  He  certainly  thought  they  had 
understood  to  the  full  what  had  been  said  to  them. 

They  know  pretty  well  what  they  have  to  expect 
from  us ;  they  know  how  we  shall  meet  any  refractory 
spirit  on  their  part ;  they  know  that  we  are  not  afraid 
of  them.  And  now  I  '11  just  step  into  Chadwick's,  and 
tell  him  what  I  Ve  done ;  and  then  I  '11  go  up  to  the 
palace,  and  answer  this  petition  of  theirs." 

The  warden's  mind  was  very  full, — full  nearly  to  over- 
charging itself ;  and  had  it  done  so, — had  he  allowed 
himself  to  speak  the  thoughts  which  were  working 
within  him,  he  would  indeed  have  astonished  the  arch- 
deacon by  the  reprobation  he  would  have  expressed  as 
to  the  proceeding  of  which  he  had  been  so  unwilling 
a  witness.  But  different  feelings  kept  him  silent ;  he 
was  as  yet  afraid  of  differing  from  his  son-in-law, — ^he 
was  anxious  beyond  measure  to  avoid  even  a  semblance 


64 


THE  WARDEN. 


of  rupture  with  any  of  his  order,  and  was  painfully- 
fearful  of  having  to  come  to  an  open  quarrel  with  any 
person  on  any  subject.  His  life  had  hitherto  been 
so  quiet,  so  free  from  strife ;  his  little  early  troubles 
had  required  nothing  but  passive  fortitude ;  his  subse- 
quent prosperity  had  never  forced  upon  him  any  active 
cares, — had  never  brought  him  into  disagreeable  con- 
tact with  any  one.  He  felt  that  he  would  give  almost 
anything, — much  more  than  he  knew  he  ought  to  give, 
— to  relieve  himself  from  the  storm  which  he  feared 
was  coming.  It  was  so  hard  that  the  pleasant  waters 
of  his  little  stream  should  be  disturbed  and  muddied 
by  rough  hands ;  that  his  quiet  paths  should  be  made 
a  battle-field ;  that  the  unobtrusive  corner  of  the  world 
which  had  been  allotted  to  him,  as  though  by  Provi- 
dence, should  be  invaded  and  desecrated,  and  all  within 
it  made  miserable  and  unsound. 

Money  he  had  none  to  give ;  the  knack  of  putting 
guineas  together  had  never  belonged  to  him  ;  but  how 
willingly,  with  what  a  foolish  easiness,  with  what  happy 
alacrity,  would  he  have  abandoned  the  half  of  his  in- 
come for  all  time  to  come,  could  he  by  so  doing  have 
quietly  dispelled  the  clouds  that  were  gathering  over 
him, — could  he  have  thus  compromised  the  matter  be- 
tween the  reformer  and  the  Conservative,  between  his 
possible  son-in-law.  Bold,  and  his  positive  son-in-law, 
the  archdeacon. 

And  this  compromise  would  not  have  been  made 
from  any  prudential  motive  of  saving  what  would  yet 
remain,  for  Mr.  Harding  still  felt  Httle  doubt  but  he 
should  be  left  for  life  in  quiet  possession  of  the  good 
things  he  had,  if  he  chose  to  retain  them.  No;  he 
would  have  done  so  from  the  sheer  love  of  quiet,  and 


DR.  GRANTLY  VISITS  THE  HOSPITAL.  65 

from  a  horror  of  being  made  the  subject  of  pubHc  talk. 
He  had  very  often  been  moved  to  pity, — to  that  in- 
ward weeping  of  the  heart  for  others'  woes ;  but  none 
had  he  ever  pitied  more  than  that  old  lord,  whose 
almost  fabulous  wealth,  drawn  from  his  church  prefer- 
ments, had  become  the  subject  of  so  much  opprobrium, 
of  such  public  scorn ;  that  wretched  clerical  octogena- 
rian Croesus,  whom  men  would  not  allow  to  die  in 
peace, — whom  all  the  world  united  to  decry  and  to 
abhor. 

Was  he  to  suffer  such  a  fate  ?  Was  his  humble  name 
to  be  bandied  in  men's  mouths,  as  the  gormandiser  of 
the  resources  of  the  poor,  as  of  one  who  had  filched 
from  the  charity  of  other  ages  wealth  which  had  been 
intended  to  relieve  the  old  and  the  infirm?  Was  he 
to  be  gibbeted  in  the  press,  to  become  a  byword  for 
oppression,  to  be  named  as  an  example  of  the  greed  of 
the  English  church?  Should  it  ever  be  said  that  he 
had  robbed  those  old  men,  whom  he  so  truly  and  so 
tenderly  loved  in  his  heart  of  hearts?  As  he  slowly 
paced,  hour  after  hour,  under  those  noble  Hme-trees, 
turning  these  sad  thoughts  within  him,  he  became  all 
but  fixed  in  his  resolve  that  some  great  step  must  be 
taken  to  reheve  him  from  the  risk  of  so  terrible  a  fate. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  archdeacon,  with  contented 
mind  and  unruffled  spirit,  went  about  his  business. 
He  said  a  word  or  two  to  Mr.  Chadwick,  and  then 
finding,  as  he  expected,  the  petition  lying  in  his  father's 
library,  he  wrote  a  short  answer  to  the  men,  in  which  he 
told  them  that  they  had  no  evils  to  redress,  but  rather 
great  mercies  for  which  to  be  thankful;  and  having 
seen  the  bishop  sign  it,  he  got  into  his  brougham  and  re- 
turned home  to  Mrs.  Grantly,  and  Plumstead  Episcopi. 

5 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 

After  much  painful  doubting,  on  one  thing  only 
could  Mr.  Harding  resolve.  He  determined  that  at 
any  rate  he  would  take  no  offence,  and  that  he  would 
make  this  question  no  cause  of  quarrel  either  with  Bold 
or  with  the  bedesmen.  In  furtherance  of  this  resolu- 
tion, he  himself  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  Bold,  the  same 
afternoon,  inviting  him  to  meet  a  few  friends  and  hear 
some  music  on  an  evening  named  in  the  next  week. 
Had  not  this  Httle  party  been  promised  to  Eleanor,  in 
his  present  state  of  mind  he  would  probably  have 
avoided  such  gaiety ;  but  the  promise  had  been  given, 
the  invitations  were  to  be  written,  and  when  Eleanor 
consulted  her  father  on  the  subject,  she  was  not  ill 
pleased  to  hear  him  say,  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  Bold, 
so  I  took  it  into  my  head  to  write  to  him  myself ;  but 
you  must  write  to  his  sister." 

Mary  Bold  was  older  than  her  brother,  and,  at  the 
time  of  our  story,  was  just  over  thirty.  She  was  not 
an  unattractive  young  woman,  though  by  no  means 
beautiful.  Her  great  merit  was  the  kindliness  of  her 
disposition.  She  was  not  very  clever,  nor  very  ani- 
mated, nor  had  she  apparently  the  energy  of  her 
brother;  but  she  was  guided  by  a  high  principle  of 
right  and  wrong ;  her  temper  was  sweet,  and  her  faults 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


67 


were  fewer  in  number  than  her  virtues.  Those  who 
casually  met  Mary  Bold  thought  little  of  her ;  but  those 
who  knew  her  well  loved  her  well,  and  the  longer  they 
knew  her  the  more  they  loved  her.  Among  those  who 
were  fondest  of  her  was  Eleanor  Harding ;  and  though 
Eleanor  had  never  openly  talked  to  her  of  her  brother, 
each  understood  the  other's  feelings  about  him.  The 
brother  and  sister  were  sitting  together  when  the  twp 
notes  were  brought  in. 

**  How  odd,"  said  Mary,  "  that  they  should  send  two 
notes.  Well,  if  Mr.  Harding  becomes  fashionable,  the 
world  is  going  to  change." 

Her  brother  understood  immediately  the  nature  and 
intention  of  the  peace-offering ;  but  it  was  not  so  easy 
for  him  to  behave  well  in  the  matter  as  it  was  for  Mr. 
Harding.  It  is  much  less  difficult  for  the  sufferer  to 
be  generous  than  for  the  oppressor.  John  Bold  felt 
that  he  could  not  go  to  the  warden's  party.  He  never 
loved  Eleanor  better  than  he  did  now ;  he  had  never 
so  strongly  felt  how  anxious  he  was  to  make  her  his 
wife  as  now,  when  so  many  obstacles  to  his  doing  so 
appeared  in  view.  Yet  here  was  her  father  himself, 
as  it  were,  clearing  away  those  very  obstacles,  and  still 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  go  to  the  house  any  more  as 
an  open  friend. 

As  he  sat  thinking  of  these  things  with  the  note  in 
his  hand,  his  sister  was  waiting  for  his  decision. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  suppose  we  must  write  separate 
answers,  and  both  say  we  shall  be  very  happy." 

"  You  '11  go,  of  course,  Mary,"  said  he ;  to  which 
she  readily  assented.  "  I  cannot,"  he  continued,  look- 
ing serious  and  gloomy.  "  I  wish  I  could,  with  all  my 
heart." 


68 


THE  WARDEN. 


"And  why  not,  John?  "  said  she.  She  had  as  yet 
heard  nothing  of  the  new-found  abuse  which  her 
brother  was  about  to  reform ; — at  least  nothing  which 
connected  it  with  her  brother's  name. 

He  sat  thinking  for  a  while  till  he  determined  that  it 
would  be  best  to  tell  her  at  once  what  it  was  that  he 
was  about.    It  must  be  done  sooner  or  later. 

I  fear  I  cannot  go  to  Mr.  Harding's  house  any  more 
as  a  friend,  just  at  present." 

''Oh,  John!  Why  not?  Ah;  you've  quarrelled 
with  Eleanor ! " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  he ;  "I 've  no  quarrel  with  her 
as  yet." 

"  What  is  it,  John?  "  said  she,  looking  at  him  with  an 
anxious,  loving  face,  for  she  knew  well  how  much  of 
his  heart  was  there  in  that  house  which  he  said  he 
could  no  longer  enter. 

"  Why,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  Ve  taken  up  the  case  of 
these  twelve  old  men  of  Hiram's  Hospital,  and  of 
course  that  brings  me  into  contact  with  Mr.  Harding. 
I  may  have  to  oppose  him,  interfere  with  him, — per- 
haps injure  him." 

Mary  looked  at  him  steadily  for  some  time  before 
she  committed  herself  to  reply,  and  then  merely  asked 
him  what  he  meant  to  do  for  the  old  men. 

"  Why,  it 's  a  long  story,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  can 
make  you  understand  it.  John  Hiram  made  a  will, 
and  left  his  property  in  charity  for  certain  poor  old 
men,  and  the  proceeds,  instead  of  going  to  the  bene- 
fit of  these  men,  goes  chiefly  into  the  pocket  of  the 
warden,  and  the  bishop's  steward." 

"  And  you  mean  to  take  away  from  Mr.  Harding  his 
share  of  it?  " 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


69 


"  I  don't  know  what  I  mean  yet.  I  mean  to  inquire 
about  it.  I  mean  to  see  who  is  entitled  to  this  prop- 
erty. I  mean  to  see,  if  I  can,  that  justice  be  done  to 
the  poor  of  the  city  of  Barchester  generally,  who  are, 
in  fact,  the  legatees  under  the  will.  I  mean,  in  short, 
to  put  the  matter  right,  if  I  can." 

And  why  are  you  to  do  this,  John?  " 

"  You  might  ask  the  same  question  of  anybody  else," 
said  he  ;  "  and  according  to  that,  the  duty  of  righting 
these  poor  men  would  belong  to  nobody.  If  we  are 
to  act  on  that  principle,  the  weak  are  never  to  be  pro- 
tected, injustice  is  never  to  be  opposed,  and  no  one  is 
to  struggle  for  the  poor!"  And  Bold  began  to  com- 
fort himself  in  the  warmth  of  his  own  virtue. 

"  But  is  there  no  one  to  do  this  but  you,  who  have 
known  Mr.  Harding  so  long?  Surely,  John,  as  a  friend, 
as  a  young  friend,  so  much  younger  than  Mr.  Hard- 
ing " 

"  That 's  woman's  logic,  all  over,  Mary.  What  has 
age  to  do  with  it?  Another  man  might  plead  that  he 
was  too  old ;  and  as  to  his  friendship,  if  the  thing  itself 
be  right,  private  motives  should  never  be  allowed  to 
interfere.  Because  I  esteem  Mr.  Harding,  is  that  a 
reason  that  I  should  neglect  a  duty  which  I  owe  to 
these  old  men?  Or  should  I  give  up  a  work  which 
my  conscience  tells  me  is  a  good  one,  because  I  regret 
the  loss  of  his  society?  " 

"And  Eleanor,  John?  "  said  the  sister,  looking  timidly 
into  her  brother's  face. 

Eleanor,  that  is.  Miss  Harding,  if  she  thinks  fit, — 
that  is,  if  her  father, — or  rather,  if  she, — or,  indeed,  he, 
— if  they  find  it  necessary  .  But  there  is  no  ne- 
cessity now  to  talk  about  Eleanor  Harding.    This  I 


70 


THE  WARDEN. 


will  say,  that  if  she  has  the  kind  of  spirit  for  which  I 
give  her  credit,  she  will  not  condemn  me  for  doing 
what  I  think  to  be  a  duty."  And  Bold  consoled  him- 
self with  the  consolation  of  a  Roman. 

Mary  sat  silent  for  a  while,  till  at  last  her  brother 
reminded  her  that  the  notes  must  be  answered,  and 
she  got  up,  and  placed  her  desk  before  her,  took  out 
her  pen  and  paper,  wrote  on  it  slowly, — 

**  Pakenham  Villas,  Tuesday  morning. 

"  My  dear  Eleanor, 
(( J  }} 

and  then  stopped  and  looked  at  her  brother. 

"Well,  Mary,  why  don't  you  write  it?" 

"  Oh,  John,"  said  she,  "  dear  John,  pray  think  better 
of  this." 

Think  better  of  what?  "  said  he. 

"Of  this  about  the  hospital, — of  all  this  about  Mr. 
Harding, — of  what  you  say  about  those  old  men. 
Nothing  can  call  upon  you, — no  duty  can  require  you 
to  set  yourself  against  your  oldest,  your  best  friend. 
Oh,  John,  think  of  Eleanor.  You  '11  break  her  heart 
and  your  own." 

"  Nonsense,  Mary ;  Miss  Harding's  heart  is  as  safe 
as  yours." 

"  Pray,  pray,  for  my  sake,  John,  give  it  up.  You 
know  how  dearly  you  love  her."  And  she  came  and 
knelt  before  him  on  the  rug.  "  Pray  give  it  up.  You 
are  going  to  make  yourself,  and  her,  and  her  father 
miserable.  You  are  going  to  make  us  all  miserable. 
And  for  what?  For  a  dream  of  justice.  You  will  never 
make  those  twelve  men  happier  than  they  now  are." 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


71 


"  You  don't  understand  it,  my  dear  girl/'  said  he, 
smoothing  her  hair  with  his  hand. 

I  do  understand  it,  John.  I  understand  that  this 
is  a  chimera, — a  dream  that  you  have  got.  I  know 
well  that  no  duty  can  require  you  to  do  this  mad, — 
this  suicidal  thing.  I  know  you  love  Eleanor  Harding 
with  all  your  heart,  and  I  tell  you  now  that  she  loves 
you  as  well.  If  there  was  a  plain,  a  positive  duty  be- 
fore you,  I  would  be  the  last  to  bid  you  neglect  it  for 
any  woman's  love ;  but  this  ;  oh,  think  again,  be- 
fore you  do  anything  to  make  it  necessary  that  you 
and  Mr.  Harding  should  be  at  variance."  He  did 
not  answer,  as  she  knelt  there,  leaning  on  his  knees, 
but  by  his  face  she  thought  that  he  was  inchned  to 
yield.  "  At  any  rate  let  me  say  that  you  will  go  to  this 
party.  At  any  rate  do  not  break  with  them  while 
your  mind  is  in  doubt."  And  she  got  up,  hoping  to 
conclude  her  note  in  the  way  she  desired. 

"  My  mind  is  not  in  doubt,"  at  last  he  said,  rising. 
"  I  could  never  respect  myself  again,  were  I  to  give 
way  now,  because  Eleanor  Harding  is  beautiful.  I  do 
love  her.  I  would  give  a  hand  to  hear  her  tell  me 
what  you  have  said,  speaking  on  her  behalf.  But  I 
cannot  for  her  sake  go  back  from  the  task  which  I 
have  commenced.  I  hope  she  may  hereafter  acknowl- 
edge and  respect  my  motives,  but  I  cannot  now  go  as 
a  guest  to  her  father's  house."  And  the  Barchester 
Brutus  went  out  to  fortify  his  own  resolution  by  medi- 
tations on  his  own  virtue. 

Poor  Mary  Bold  sat  down  and  sadly  finished  her 
note,  saying  that  she  would  herself  attend  the  party, 
but  that  her  brother  was  unavoidably  prevented  from 
»       doing  so.    I  fear  that  she  did  not  admire  as  she 


72 


THE  WARDEN. 


should  have  done  the  self-devotion  of  his  singular 
virtue. 

The  party  went  off  as  such  parties  do.  There  were 
fat  old  ladies  in  fine  silk  dresses,  and  slim  young 
ladies  in  gauzy  muslin  frocks;  old  gentlemen  stood 
up  with  their  backs  to  the  empty  fireplace,  looking  by 
no  means  so  comfortable  as  they  would  have  done 
in  their  own  arm-chairs  at  home ;  and  young  gentle- 
men, rather  stiff  about  the  neck,  clustered  near  the 
door,  not  as  yet  sufficiently  in  courage  to  attack  the 
muslin  frocks,  who  awaited  the  battle,  drawn  up  in  a 
semicircular  array.  The  warden  endeavoured  to  in- 
duce a  charge,  but  failed  signally,  not  having  the  tact 
of  a  general ;  his  daughter  did  what  she  could  to  com- 
fort the  forces  under  her  command,  who  took  in  re- 
freshing rations  of  cake  and  tea,  and  patiently  looked 
for  the  coming  engagement.  But  she  herself,  Eleanor, 
had  no  spirit  for  the  work;  the  only  enemy  whose 
lance  she  cared  to  encounter  was  not  there,  and  she 
and  others  were  somewhat  dull. 

Loud  above  all  voices  was  heard  the  clear  sonorous 
tones  of  the  archdeacon  as  he  dilated  to  brother  par- 
sons of  the  danger  of  the  church,  of  the  fearful  rumours 
of  mad  reforms  even  at  Oxford,  and  of  the  damnable 
heresies  of  Dr.  Whiston. 

Soon,  however,  sweeter  sounds  began  timidly  to  make 
themselves  audible.  Little  movements  were  made  in 
a  quarter  notable  for  round  stools  and  music  stands. 
Wax  candles  were  arranged  in  sconces,  big  books  were 
brought  from  hidden  recesses,  and  the  work  of  the 
evening  commenced. 

How  often  were  those  pegs  twisted  and  retwisted 
before  our  friend  found  that  he  had  twisted  them 


\ 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


73 


enough ;  how  many  discordant  scrapes  gave  promise 
of  the  coming  harmony!  How  much  the  musHn  flut- 
tered and  crumpled  before  Eleanor  and  another  nymph 
were  duly  seated  at  the  piano ;  how  closely  did  that 
tall  Apollo  pack  himself  against  the  wall,  with  his  flute, 
long  as  himself,  extending  high  over  the  heads  of  his 
pretty  neighbours ;  into  how  small  a  corner  crept  that 
round  and  florid  little  minor  canon,  and  there  with  skill 
amazing  found  room  to  tune  his  accustomed  fiddle ! 

And  now  the  crash  begins.  Away  they  go  in  full 
flow  of  harmony  together, — up  hill  and  down  dale, — 
now  louder  and  louder,  then  lower  and  lower;  now 
loud,  as  though  stirring  the  ba.ttle  ;  then  low,  as  though 
mourning  the  slain.  In  all,  through  all,  and  above  all, 
is  heard  the  violoncello.  Ah,  not  for  nothing  were 
those  pegs  so  twisted  and  retwisted.  Listen,  listen! 
Now  alone  that  saddest  of  instruments  tells  its  touch- 
ing tale.  Silent,  and  in  awe,  stand  fiddle,  flute,  and 
piano,  to  hear  the  sorrows  of  their  wailing  brother. 
'T  is  but  for  a  moment.  Before  the  melancholy  of 
those  low  notes  has  been  fully  reahsed,  again  comes 
the  full  force  of  all  the  band.  Down  go  the  pedals. 
Away  rush  twenty  fingers  scouring  over  the  bass  notes 
with  all  the  impetus  of  passion.  Apollo  blows  till  his 
stiff  neckcloth  is  no  better  than  a  rope,  and  the  minor 
canon  works  with  both  arms  till  he  falls  into  a  syncope 
of  exhaustion  against  the  wall. 

How  comes  it  that  now,  when  all  should  be  silent, 
when  courtesy,  if  not  taste,  should  make  men  listen, — 
how  is  it  at  this  moment  the  black-coated  corps  leave 
their  retreat  and  begin  skirmishing  ?  One  by  one  they 
creep  forth,  and  fire  off  little  guns  timidly,  and  with- 
out precision.    Ah,  my  men,  efforts  such  as  these  will 


74 


THE  WARDEN. 


take  no  cities,  even  though  the  enemy  should  be  never 
so  open  to  assault.  At  length  a  more  deadly  artillery 
is  brought  to  bear ;  slowly,  but  with  effect,  the  ad- 
vance is  made  ;  the  musHn  ranks  are  broken,  and  fall 
into  confusion ;  the  formidable  array  of  chairs  gives 
way ;  the  battle  is  no  longer  between  opposing  regi- 
ments, but  hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot  with  single 
combatants,  as  in  the  glorious  days  of  old,  when  fighting 
was  really  noble.  In  corners,  and  under  the  shadow 
of  curtains,  behind  sofas  and  half  hidden  by  doors,  in 
retiring  windows,  and  sheltered  by  hanging  tapestry, 
are  blows  given  and  returned,  fatal,  incurable,  dealing 
death. 

Apart  from  this  another  combat  arises,  more  sober 
and  more  serious.  The  archdeacon  is  engaged  against 
two  prebendaries,  a  pursy  full-blown  rector  assisting 
him,  in  all  the  perils  and  all  the  enjoyments  of  short 
whist.  With  solemn  energy  do  they  watch  the  shuffled 
pack,  and,  all-expectant,  eye  the  coming  trump.  With 
what  anxious  nicety  do  they  arrange  their  cards,  jeal- 
ous of  each  other's  eyes !  Why  is  that  lean  doctor  so 
slow, — cadaverous  man  with  hollow  jaw  and  sunken 
eye,  ill  beseeming  the  richness  of  his  mother  church! 
Ah,  why  so  slow,  thou  meagre  doctor?  See  how  the 
archdeacon,  speechless  in  his  agony,  deposits  on  the 
board  his  cards,  and  looks  to  heaven  or  to  the  ceiling 
for  support.  Hark,  how  he  sighs,  as  with  thumbs  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket  he  seems  to  signify  that  the  end 
of  such  torment  is  not  yet  even  nigh  at  hand!  Vain 
is  the  hope,  if  hope  there  be,  to  disturb  that  meagre 
doctor.  With  care  precise  he  places  every  card,  weighs 
well  the  value  of  each  mighty  ace,  each  guarded  king, 
and  comfort-giving  queen ;  speculates  on  knave  and 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


75 


ten,  counts  all  his  suits,  and  sets  his  price  upon  the 
whole.  At  length  a  card  is  led,  and  quick  three  others 
fall  upon  the  board.  The  Httle  doctor  leads  again, 
while  with  lustrous  eye  his  partner  absorbs  the  trick. 
Now  thrice  has  this  been  done, — thrice  has  constant 
fortune  favoured  the  brace  of  prebendaries,  ere  the 
archdeacon  rouses  himself  to  the  battle.  But  at  the 
fourth  assault  he  pins  to  the  earth  a  prostrate  king, 
laying  low  his  crown  and  sceptre,  bushy  beard,  and 
lowering  brow,  with  a  poor  deuce. 

"  As  David  did  Goliath,"  says  the  archdeacon,  push- 
ing over  the  four  cards  to  his  partner.  And  then  a 
trump  is  led,  then  another  trump ;  then  a  king, — and 
then  an  ace, — and  then  a  long  ten,  which  brings  down 
from  the  meagre  doctor  his  only  remaining  tower  of 
strength, — his  cherished  queen  of  trumps. 

"What,  no  second  club?"  says  the  archdeacon  to 
his  partner. 

*'  Only  one  club,"  mutters  from  his  inmost  stomach 
the  pursy  rector,  who  sits  there  red  faced,  silent,  im- 
pervious, careful,  a  safe  but  not  a  brilliant  ally. 

But  the  archdeacon  cares  not  for  many  clubs,  or  for 
none.  He  dashes  out  his  remaining  cards  with  a  speed 
most  annoying  to  his  antagonists,  pushes  over  to  them 
some  four  cards  as  their  allotted  portion,  shoves  the 
remainder  across  the  table  to  the  red-faced  rector; 
calls  out  "  two  by  cards  and  two  by  honours,  and  the 
odd  trick  last  time,"  marks  a  treble  under  the  candle- 
stick, and  has  dealt  round  the  second  pack  before  the 
meagre  doctor  has  calculated  his  losses. 

And  so  went  off  the  warden's  party,  and  men  and 
women  arranging  shawls  and  shoes  declared  how 
pleasant  it  had  been ;  and  Mrs.  Goodenough,  the  red- 


76 


THE  WARDEN. 


faced  rector's  wife,  pressing  the  warden's  hand,  de- 
clared she  had  never  enjoyed  herself  better; — which 
showed  how  httle  pleasure  she  allowed  herself  in  this 
world,  as  she  had  sat  the  whole  evening  through  in  the 
same  chair  without  occupation,  not  speaking,  and  un- 
spoken to.  And  Matilda  Johnson,  when  she  allowed 
young  Dickson  of  the  bank  to  fasten  her  cloak  round 
her  neck,  thought  that  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  and 
a  Httle  cottage  would  really  do  for  happiness  ; — besides, 
he  was  sure  to  be  manager  some  day.  And  Apollo, 
folding  his  flute  into  his  pocket,  felt  that  he  had  ac- 
quitted himself  with  honour;  and  the  archdeacon 
pleasantly  jingled  his  gains;  but  the  meagre  doctor 
went  off  without  much  audible  speech,  muttering  ever 
and  anon  as  he  went,  "  three  and  thirty  points!  "  "  three 
and  thirty  points! " 

And  so  they  all  were  gone,  and  Mr.  Harding  was 
left  alone  with  his  daughter. 

What  had  passed  between  Eleanor  Harding  and 
Mary  Bold  need  not  be  told.  It  is  indeed  a  matter  of 
thankfulness  that  neither  the  historian  nor  the  novelist 
hears  all  that  is  said  by  their  heroes  or  heroines,  or 
how  would  three  volumes  or  twenty  suffice!  In  the 
present  case  so  little  of  this  sort  have  I  overheard, 
that  I  live  in  hopes  of  finishing  my  work  within  300 
pages,  and  of  completing  that  pleasant  task — a  novel 
in  one  volume;  but  something  had  passed  between 
them,  and  as  the  warden  blew  out  the  wax  candles, 
and  put  his  instrument  into  its  case,  his  daughter  stood 
sad  and  thoughtful  by  the  empty  fireplace,  determined 
to  speak  to  her  father,  but  irresolute  as  to  what  she 
would  say. 

"  Well,  Eleanor,"  said  he ;  "  are  you  for  bed?  " 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


77 


"  Yes,"  said  she,  moving,  "  I   suppose  so ;  but 

papa  .    Mr.  Bold  was  not  here  to-night ;  do  you 

know  why  not  ?  " 

He  was  asked ;  I  wrote  to  him  myself,"  said  the 
warden. 

"  But  do  you  know  why  he  did  not  come,  papa?  " 

"  Well,  Eleanor,  I  could  guess ;  but  it 's  no  use  guess- 
ing at  such  things,  my  dear.  What  makes  you  look  so 
earnest  about  it?  " 

"  Oh,  papa,  do  tell  me,"  she  exclaimed,  throwing  her 
arms  round  him,  and  looking  into  his  face ;  "  what  is 
it  he  is  going  to  do?  What  is  it  all  about?  Is  there 
any — any — any — "  she  did  n't  well  know  what  word 
to  use — "any  danger?  " 

Danger,  my  dear,  what  sort  of  danger?  " 

"  Danger  to  you,  danger  of  trouble,  and  of  loss,  and 

of  .    Oh,  papa,  why  have  n't  you  told  me  of  all 

this  before?  " 

Mr.  Harding  was  not  the  man  to  judge  harshly  of 
any  one,  much  less  of  the  daughter  whom  he  now 
loved  better  than  any  living  creature ;  but  still  he  did 
judge  her  wrongly  at  this  moment.  He  knew  that 
she  loved  John  Bold ;  he  fully  sympathised  in  her  af- 
fection ;  day  after  day  he  thought  more  of  the  matter, 
and,  with  the  tender  care  of  a  loving  father,  tried  to 
arrange  in  his  own  mind  how  matters  might  be  so 
managed  that  his  daughter's  heart  should  not  be  made 
the  sacrifice  to  the  dispute  which  was  likely  to  exist  be- 
tween him  and  Bold,  Now,  when  she  spoke  to  him 
for  the  first  time  on  the  subject,  it  was  natural  that  he 
should  think  more  of  her  than  of  himself,  and  that  he 
should  imagine  that  her  own  cares,  and  not  his,  were 
troubling  her. 


78 


THE  WARDEN. 


He  Stood  silent  before  her  awhile,  as  she  gazed  up 
into  his  face,  and  then  kissing  her  forehead  he  placed 
her  on  the  sofa. 

"  Tell  me,  Nelly,"  he  said  (he  only  called  her  Nelly 
in  his  kindest,  softest,  sweetest  moods ;  and  yet  all  his 
moods  were  kind  and  sweet),  "  tell  me,  Nelly,  do  you 
like  Mr.  Bold— much?" 

She  was  quite  taken  aback  by  the  question.  I  will 
not  say  that  she  had  forgotten  herself,  and  her  own 
love  in  thinking  about  John  Bold,  and  while  conversing 
with  Mary.  She  certainly  had  not  done  so.  She  had 
been  sick  at  heart  to  think,  that  a  man  of  whom  she 
could  not  but  own  to  herself  that  she  loved  him,  of 
whose  regard  she  had  been  so  proud,  that  such  a  man 
should  turn  against  her  father  to  ruin  him.  She  had 
felt  her  vanity  hurt  that  his  affection  for  her  had  not 
kept  him  from  such  a  course.  Had  he  really  cared 
for  her,  he  would  not  have  risked  her  love  by  such  an 
outrage.  But  her  main  fear  had  been  for  her  father, 
and  when  she  spoke  of  danger,  it  was  of  danger  to 
him  and  not  to  herself. 

She  was  taken  aback  by  the  question  altogether: 
"  Do  I  like  him,  papa?  " 

"Yes,  Nelly,  do  you  hke  him?  Why  should  n't  you 
like  him?  But  that  's  a  poor  word.  Do  you  love 
him?  "  She  sat  still  in  his  arms  without  answering  him. 
She  certainly  had  not  prepared  herself  for  an  avowal 
of  affection,  intending,  as  she  had  done,  to  abuse  John 
Bold  herself,  and  to  hear  her  father  do  so  also.  "  Come, 
my  love,"  said  he,  "  let  us  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
Do  you  tell  me  what  concerns  yourself,  and  I  will  tell 
you  what  concerns  me  and  the  hospital." 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  de- 


THE  warden's  tea  PARTY. 


79 


scribed  to  her,  as  he  best  could,  the  accusation  that 
was  made  about  Hiram's  will;  the  claims  which  the 
old  men  put  forward ;  what  he  considered  the  strength 
and  what  the  weakness  of  his  own  position ;  the  course 
which  Bold  had  taken,  and  that  which  he  presumed 
he  was  about  to  take ;  and  then  by  degrees,  without 
further  question,  he  presumed  on  the  fact  of  Eleanor's 
love,  and  spoke  of  that  love  as  a  feeling  which  he 
could  in  no  way  disapprove.  He  apologised  for  Bold, 
excused  what  he  was  doing ;  nay,  praised  him  for  his 
energy  and  intentions ;  made  much  of  his  good  quali- 
ties, and  harped  on  none  of  his  foibles ;  then,  remind- 
ing his  daughter  how  late  it  was,  and  comforting  her 
with  much  assurance  which  he  hardly  felt  himself,  he 
sent  her  to  her  room,  with  flowing  eyes  and  a  full 
heart. 

When  Mr.  Harding  met  his  daughter  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning,  there  was  no  further  discussion  on 
the  matter,  nor  was  the  subject  mentioned  between 
them  for  some  days.  Soon  after  the  party  Mary  Bold 
called  at  the  hospital,  but  there  were  various  persons 
in  the  drawing-room  at  the  time,  and  she  therefore 
said  nothing  about  her  brother.  On  the  day  following, 
John  Bold  met  Miss  Harding  in  one  of  the  quiet,  som- 
bre, shaded  walks  of  the  close.  He  was  most  anxious 
to  see  her,  but  unwiUing  to  call  at  the  warden's  house, 
and  had  in  truth  waylaid  her  in  her  private  haunts. 

"  My  sister  tells  me,"  said  he,  abruptly  hurrying  on 
with  his  premeditated  speech,  "  my  sister  tells  me  that 
you  had  a  delightful  party  the  other  evening.  I  was 
so  sorry  I  could  not  be  there." 

"  We  were  all  sorry,"  said  Eleanor,  with  dignified 
composure. 


8o 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  I  believe,  Miss  Harding,  you  understood  why,  at 

this  moment  "     And  Bold  hesitated,  muttered, 

stopped,  commenced  his  explanation  again,  and  again 
broke  down.  Eleanor  would  not  help  him  in  the  least. 
"  I  think  my  sister  explained  to  you.  Miss  Harding?  " 

"  Pray  don't  apologise,  Mr.  Bold ;  my  father  will,  I 
am  sure,  always  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you  like  to  come 
to  the  house  now  as  formerly ;  nothing  has  occurred 
to  alter  his  feelings.  Of  your  own  views  you  are,  of 
course,  the  best  judge." 

"Your  father  is  all  that  is  kind  and  generous;  he 

always  was  so ;  but  you.  Miss  Harding,  yourself  

I  hope  you  will  not  judge  me  harshly,  because  " 

"  Mr.  Bold,"  said  she,  "  you  may  be  sure  of  one 
thing ;  I  shall  always  judge  my  father  to  be  right,  and 
those  who  oppose  him  I  shall  judge  to  be  wrong.  If 
those  who  do  not  know  him  oppose  him,  I  shall  have 
charity  enough  to  believe  that  they  are  wrong  through 
error  of  judgment ;  but  should  I  see  him  attacked  by 
those  who  ought  to  know  him,  and  to  love  him,  and 
revere  him,  of  such  I  shall  be  constrained  to  form  a 
different  opinion."  And  then  curtseying  low  she  sailed 
on,  leaving  her  lover  in  anything  but  a  happy  state  of 
mind. 


"1  i)el\eve,  Miss  Harding,  you  undv.  ...  u  Mt^. 

this  moment  And  Bold  hesitated,  muttered, 

stopped,  commenced  his  on  again,  and  again 

broke  down.  Eleanor  w  .  c  nelp  him  in  the  least. 
''I  think  my  sister  explained  to  you,  Miss  Harding?  " 

"^Te  ^          1(1;  my  father  will,  I 

am  sur  ,  if  you  hke  to  come 

to  the  ng  has  occurred 

ws  you  are,  of 

he 

"  /  s/ia//  always  Judge  my  father  to  be  ri^ht.'' 


Uioic  wno  do  not  k: 

charity  enough  to  be:.  ,.  .  ,  , 

error  of  judgment ;  but  should  I  see  him  attacked  by 
those  who  ought  to  know  him,  and  to  love  him,  and 
rr-vpre  hiTT!  of  sTich  T  shall  be  constrained  to  form  a 
then  curtseying  low  she  sailed 
but  a  haj 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  JUPITER. 

Though  Eleanor  Harding  rode  off  from  John  Bold 
on  a  high  horse,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  her  heart 
was  so  elate  as  her  demeanour.  In  the  first  place,  she 
had  a  natural  repugnance  to  losing  her  lover ;  and  in 
the  next,  she  was  not  quite  so  sure  that  she  was  so  cer- 
tainly in  the  right  as  she  pretended  to  be.  Her  father 
had  told  her,  and  that  now  repeatedly,  that  Bold  was 
doing  nothing  unjust  or  ungenerous;  and  why  then 
should  she  rebuke  him,  and  throw  him  off,  when  she 
felt  herself  so  ill  able  to  bear  his  loss?  But  such  is 
human  nature,  and  young-lady-nature  especially.  As 
she  walked  off  from  him  beneath  the  shady  ehns  of  the 
close,  her  look,  her  tone,  every  motion  and  gesture  of 
her  body,  belied  her  heart ;  she  would  have  given  the 
world  to  have  taken  him  by  the  hand,  to  have  reasoned 
with  him,  persuaded  him,  cajoled  him,  coaxed  him  out 
of  his  project ;  to  have  overcome  him  with  all  her  fe- 
male artillery,  and  to  have  redeemed  her  father  at  the 
cost  of  herself ;  but  pride  would  not  let  her  do  this, 
and  she  left  him  without  a  look  of  love  or  a  word  of 
kindness. 

Had  Bold  been  judging  of  another  lover  and  of 
another  lady,  he  might  have  understood  all  this  as  well 
as  we  do;  but  in  matters  of  love  men  do  not  see 

6 


82 


THE  WARDEN. 


clearly  in  their  own"  affairs.  They  say  that  faint  heart 
never  won  fair  lady.  It  is  amazing  to  me  how  fair 
ladies  are  won,  so  faint  are  often  men's  hearts !  Were 
it  not  for  the  kindness  of  their  nature,  that  seeing  the 
weakness  of  our  courage  they  will  occasionally  de- 
scend from  their  impregnable  fortresses,  and  themselves 
aid  us  in  effecting  their  own  defeat,  too  often  would 
they  escape  unconquered  if  not  unscathed,  and  free  of 
body  if  not  of  heart. 

Poor  Bold  crept  off  quite  crestfallen.  He  felt  that 
as  regarded  Eleanor  Harding  his  fate  was  sealed,  un- 
less he  could  consent  to  give  up  a  task  to  which  he 
had  pledged  himself,  and  which  indeed  it  would  not 
be  easy  for  him  to  give  up.  Lawyers  were  engaged, 
and  the  question  had  to  a  certain  extent  been  taken 
up  by  the  public.  Besides,  how  could  a  high-spirited 
girl  like  Eleanor  Harding  really  learn  to  love  a  man 
for  neglecting  a  duty  which  he  had  assumed!  Could 
she  allow  her  affection  to  be  purchased  at  the  cost  of 
his  own  self-respect? 

As  regarded  the  issue  of  his  attempt  at  reformation 
in  the  hospital,  Bold  had  no  reason  hitherto  to  be  dis- 
contented with  his  success.  All  Barchester  was  by  the 
ears  about  it.  The  bishop,  the  archdeacon,  the  warden, 
the  steward,  and  several  other  clerical  allies,  had  daily 
meetings,  discussing  their  tactics,  and  preparing  for 
the  great  attack.  Sir  Abraham  Haphazard  had  been 
consulted,  but  his  opinion  was  not  yet  received.  Copies 
of  Hiram's  will,  copies  of  wardens'  journals,  copies  of 
leases,  copies  of  accounts,  copies  of  everything  that 
could  be  copied,  and  of  some  that  could  not,  had  been 
sent  to  him ;  and  the  case  was  assuming  most  credita- 
ble dimensions.    But  above  all,  it  had  been  mentioned 


THE  JUPITER. 


83 


in  the  daily  Jupiter.  That  all-powerful  organ  of  the 
press  in  one  of  its  leading  thunderbolts  launched  at  St. 
Cross  had  thus  remarked:   'Another  case,  of  smaller 

*  dimensions  indeed,  but  of  similar  import,  is  now  Hkely 
'  to  come  under  public  notice.    We  are  informed  that 

*  the  warden  or  master  of  an  old  alms-house  attached 
'to  Barchester  Cathedral  is  in  receipt  of  twenty-five 
'  times  the  annual  income  appointed  for  him  by  the 
'  will  of  the  founder,  while  the  sum  yearly  expended 
'  on  the  absolute  purposes  of  the  charity  has  always 
'  remained  fixed.  In  other  words,  the  legatees  under 
*the  founder's  will  have  received  no  advantage  from 
'  the  increase  in  the  value  of  the  property  during  the 
'  last  four  centuries,  such  increase  having  been  absorbed 
'  by  the  so-called  warden.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive 
'a  case  of  greater  injustice.  It  is  no  answer  to  say 
'  that  some  six  or  nine  or  twelve  old  men  receive  as 

*  much  of  the  goods  of  this  world  as  such  old  men  re- 
'quire.  On  what  foundation,  moral  or  divine,  tra- 
'  ditional  or  legal,  is  grounded  the  warden's  claim  to 

*  the  large  income  he  receives  for  doing  nothing?  The 
'contentment  of  these  almsmen,  if  content  they  be, 
'  can  give  him  no  title  to  this  wealth !  Does  he  ever 
'  ask  himself,  when  he  stretches  wide  his  clerical  palm 
'to  receive  the  pay  of  some  dozen  of  the  working 
'  clergy,  for  what  service  he  is  so  remunerated?  Does 
'  his  conscience  ever  entertain  the  question  of  his  right 
'to  such  subsidies?    Or  is  it  possible  that  the  subject 

*  never  so  presents  itself  to  his  mind :  that  he  has  re- 
'  ceived  for  many  years,  and  intends,  should  God  spare 
'  him,  to  receive  for  years  to  come,  these  fruits  of  the 
'  industrious  piety  of  past  ages,  indifferent  as  to  any 
'right  on  his  own  part,  or  of  any  injustice  to  others! 


84 


THE  WARDEN. 


'  We  must  express  an  opinion  that  nowhere  but  in  the 
'  Church  of  England,  and  only  there  among  its  priests, 
'  could  such  a  state  of  moral  indifference  be  found.' 

I  must  for  the  present  leave  my  readers  to  imagine 
the  state  of  Mr.  Harding's  mind  after  reading  the  above 
article.  They  say  that  eighty  thousand  copies  of  the 
Jupiter  are  daily  sold,  and  that  each  copy  is  read  by 
five  persons  at  the  least.  Four  hundred  thousand 
readers  then  would  hear  this  accusation  against  him ; 
four  hundred  thousand  hearts  would  swell  with  indig- 
nation at  the  griping  injustice,  the  barefaced  robbery 
of  the  warden  of  Barchester  Hospital!  And  how  was 
he  to  answer  this?  How  was  he  to  open  his  inmost 
heart  to  this  multitude,  to  these  thousands,  the  edu- 
cated, the  pohshed,  the  picked  men  of  his  own  country  ; 
how  show  them  that  he  was  no  robber,  no  avaricious, 
lazy  priest  scrambling  for  gold,  but  a  retiring  humble- 
spirited  man,  who  had  innocently  taken  what  had  in- 
nocently been  offered  to  him? 

"  Write  to  the  Jupiter,"  suggested  the  bishop. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  archdeacon,  more  worldly  wise  than 
his  father ;  "  yes,  and  be  smothered  with  ridicule ; 
tossed  over  and  over  again  with  scorn ;  shaken  this 
way  and  that,  as  a  rat  in  the  mouth  of  a  practised 
terrier.  You  will  leave  out  some  word  or  letter  in  your 
answer,  and  the  ignorance  of  the  cathedral  clergy  will 
be  harped  upon ;  you  will  make  some  small  mistake, 
which  will  be  a  falsehood,  or  some  admission,  which 
will  be  self-condemnation;  you  will  find  yourself  to 
have  been  vulgar,  ill-tempered,  irreverend,  and  illiter- 
ate, and  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  but  that  being  a 
clergyman  you  will  have  been  guilty  of  blasphemy !  A 
man  may  have  the  best  of  causes,  the  best  of  talents, 


THE  JUPITER. 


85 


and  the  best  of  tempers ;  he  may  write  as  well  as  Ad- 
dison, or  as  strongly  as  Junius ;  but  even  with  all  this 
he  cannot  successfully  answer  when  attacked  by  the 
Jupiter.  In  such  matters  it  is  omnipotent.  What  the 
Czar  is  in  Russia,  or  the  mob  in  America,  that  the 
Jupiter  is  in  England.  Answer  such  an  article !  No, 
warden ;  whatever  you  do,  don't  do  that.  We  were  to 
look  for  this  sort  of  thing,  you  know ;  but  we  need  not 
draw  down  on  our  heads  more  of  it  than  is  necessary." 

The  article  in  the  Jupiter,  while  it  so  greatly  harassed 
our  poor  warden,  was  an  immense  triumph  to  some 
of  the  opposite  party.  Sorry  as  Bold  was  to  see  Mr. 
Harding  attacked  so  personally,  it  still  gave  him  a 
feeling  of  elation  to  find  his  cause  taken  up  by  so 
powerful  an  advocate.  And  as  to  Finney,  the  attorney, 
he  was  beside  himself.  What!  to  be  engaged  in  the 
same  cause  and  on  the  same  side  with  the  Jupiter ;  to 
have  the  views  he  had  recommended  seconded,  and 
furthered,  and  battled  for  by  the  Jupiter!  Perhaps  to 
have  his  own  name  mentioned  as  that  of  the  learned 
gentleman  whose  efforts  had  been  so  successful  on  be- 
half of  the  poor  of  Barchester!  He  might  be  exam- 
ined before  committees  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
with  heaven  knows  how  much  a  day  for  his  personal 
expenses ; — he  might  be  engaged  for  years  on  such  a 
suit!  There  was  no  end  to  the  glorious  golden  dreams 
which  this  leader  in  the  Jupiter  produced  in  the  soaring 
mind  of  Finney. 

And  the  old  bedesmen; — they  also  heard  of  this 
article,  and  had  a  glimmering,  indistinct  idea  of  the 
marvellous  advocate  which  had  now  taken  up  their 
cause.  Abel  Handy  limped  hither  and  thither  through 
the  rooms,  repeating  all  that  he  understood  to  have 


86 


THE  WARDEN. 


been  printed,  with  some  additions  of  his  own  which  he 
thought  should  have  been  added.  He  told  them  how 
the  Jupiter  had  declared  that  their  warden  was  no  bet- 
ter than  a  robber,  and  that  what  the  Jupiter  said  was 
acknowledged  by  the  world  to  be  true.  How  the 
Jupiter  had  affirmed  that  each  one  of  them — "  each 
one  of  us,  Jonathan  Crumple,  think  of  that ! " — ^had  a 
clear  right  to  a  hundred  a  year ;  and  that  if  the  Jupiter 
had  said  so,  it  was  better  than  a  decision  of  the  Lord 
Chancellor.  And  then  he  carried  about  the  paper,  sup- 
plied by  Mr.  Finney,  which,  though  none  of  them 
could  read  it,  still  afforded  in  its  very  touch  and  as- 
pect positive  corroboration  of  what  was  told  them; 
and  Jonathan  Crumple  pondered  deeply  over  his  re- 
turning wealth ;  and  Job  Skulpit  saw  how  right  he  had 
been  in  signing  the  petition,  and  said  so  many  scores 
of  times  ;  and  Spriggs  leered  fearfully  with  his  one  eye  ; 
and  Moody,  as  he  more  nearly  approached  the  coming 
golden  age,  hated  more  deeply  than  ever  those  who 
still  kept  possession  of  what  he  so  coveted.  Even  Billy 
Gazy  and  poor  bed-ridden  Bell  became  active  and  un- 
easy. But  the  great  Bunce  stood  apart  with  lowering 
brow,  with  deep  grief  seated  in  his  heart,  for  he  per- 
ceived that  evil  days  were  coming. 

It  had  been  decided,  the  archdeacon  advising,  that 
no  remonstrance,  explanation,  or  defence  should  be  ad- 
dressed from  the  Barchester  conclave  to  the  Editor  of 
the  Jupiter ;  but  hitherto  that  was  the  only  decision  to 
which  they  had  come. 

Sir  Abraham  Haphazard  was  deeply  engaged  in  pre- 
paring a  bill  for  the  mortification  of  papists,  to  be 
called  the  "  Convent  Custody  Bill,"  the  purport  of 
which  was  to  enable  any  Protestant  clergyman  over 


THE  JUPITER. 


87 


fifty  years  of  age  to  search  any  nun  whom  he  suspected 
of  being  in  possession  of  treasonable  papers,  or  Jesuit- 
ical symbols ;  and  as  there  were  to  be  a  hundred  and 
thirty-seven  clauses  in  the  bill,  each  clause  containing 
a  separate  thorn  for  the  side  of  the  papist,  and  as  it 
was  known  the  bill  would  be  fought  inch  by  inch,  by 
fifty  maddened  Irishmen,  the  due  construction  and  ad- 
equate dovetailing  of  it  did  consume  much  of  Sir  Abra- 
ham's time.  The  bill  had  all  its  desired  effect.  Of 
course  it  never  passed  into  law ;  but  it  so  completely 
divided  the  ranks  of  the  Irish  members,  who  had 
bound  themselves  together  to  force  on  the  ministry  a 
bill  for  compelling  all  men  to  drink  Irish  whiskey,  and 
all  women  to  wear  Irish  poplins,  that  for  the  remainder 
of  the  session  the  Great  Poplin  and  Whiskey  League 
was  utterly  harmless. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Sir  Abraham's  opinion  was 
not  at  once  forthcoming,  and  the  uncertainty,  the  ex- 
pectation, and  suffering  of  the  folk  of  Barchester  was 
maintained  at  a  high  pitch. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 

The  reader  must  now  be  requested  to  visit  the  rec- 
tory of  Plumstead  Episcopi ;  and  as  it  is  as  yet  still 
early  morning,  to  ascend  again  with  us  into  the  bed- 
room of  the  archdeacon.  The  mistress  of  the  mansion 
was  at  her  toilet;  on  which  we  will  not  dwell  with 
profane  eyes,  but  proceed  into  a  small  inner  room, 
where  the  doctor  dressed  and  kept  his  boots  and  ser- 
mons ;  and  here  we  will  take  our  stand,  premising  that 
the  door  of  the  room  was  so  open  as  to  admit  of  a  con- 
versation between  our  reverend  Adam  and  his  valued 
Eve. 

It 's  all  your  own  fault,  archdeacon,"  said  the  latter. 
"  I  told  you  from  the  beginning  how  it  would  end,  and 
papa  has  no  one  to  thank  but  you." 

"  Good  gracious,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  appear- 
ing at  the  door  of  his  dressing-room,  with  his  face  and 
head  enveloped  in  the  rough  towel  which  he  was  vio- 
lently using ;  "  how  can  you  say  so  ?  I  am  doing  my 
very  best." 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  done  so  much,"  said  the  lady, 
interrupting  him.  "  If  you 'd  just  have  let  John  Bold 
come  and  go  there,  as  he  and  papa  liked,  he  and 
Eleanor  would  have  been  married  by  this  time,  and  we 
should  not  have  heard  one  word  about  all  this  affair." 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 


89 


"  But,  my  dear  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  very  well,  archdeacon ;  and  of  course 
you  're  right ;  I  don't  for  a  moment  think  you  '11  ever 
admit  that  you  could  be  wrong ;  but  the  fact  is,  you 've 
brought  this  young  man  down  upon  papa  by  huffing 
him  as  you  have  done." 

"  But,  my  love  " 

"  And  all  because  you  did  n't  like  John  Bold  for  a 
brother-in-law.  How  is  she  ever  to  do  better?  Papa 
has  n't  got  a  shilling;  and  though  Eleanor  is  well 
enough,  she  has  not  at  all  a  taking  style  of  beauty. 
I 'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  she 's  to  do  better  than 
marry  John  Bold ;  or  as  well  indeed,"  added  the  anx- 
ious sister,  giving  the  last  twist  to  her  last  shoe-string. 

Dr.  Grantly  felt  keenly  the  injustice  of  this  attack ; 
but  what  could  he  say?  He  certainly  had  huffed  John 
Bold ;  he  certainly  had  objected  to  him  as  a  brother-in- 
law,  and  a  very  few  months  ago  the  very  idea  had  ex- 
cited his  wrath.  But  now  matters  were  changed ;  John 
Bold  had  shown  his  power,  and,  though  he  was  as 
odious  as  ever  to  the  archdeacon,  power  is  always  re- 
spected, and  the  reverend  dignitary  began  to  think  that 
such  an  aUiance  might  not  have  been  imprudent. 
Nevertheless,  his  motto  was  still  "  no  surrender  " ;  he 
would  still  fight  it  out ;  he  believed  confidently  in  Ox- 
ford, in  the  bench  of  bishops,  in  Sir  Abraham  Hap- 
hazard, and  in  himself ;  and  it  was  only  when  alone 
with  his  wife  that  doubts  of  defeat  ever  beset  him. 
He  once  more  tried  to  communicate  this  confidence  to 
Mrs.  Grantly,  and  for  the  twentieth  time  began  to  tell 
her  of  Sir  Abraham. 

"Oh,  Sir  Abraham!"  said  she,  collecting  all  her 
house  keys  into  her  basket  before  she  descended ;  "  Sir 


90 


THE  WARDEN. 


Abraham  won't  get  Eleanor  a  husband ;  Sir  Abraham 
won't  get  papa  another  income  when  he  has  been  wor- 
reted  out  of  the  hospital.  Mark  what  I  tell  you,  arch- 
deacon.  While  you  and  Sir  Abraham  are  fighting, 
papa  will  lose  his  preferment ;  and  what  will  you  do 
then  with  him  and  Eleanor  on  your  hands?  besides, 
who 's  to  pay  Sir  Abraham  ?  I  suppose  he  won't  take 
the  case  up  for  nothing?  "  And  so  the  lady  descended 
to  family  worship  among  her  children  and  servants, 
the  pattern  of  a  good  and  prudent  wife. 

Dr.  Grantly  was  blessed  with  a  happy,  thriving 
family.  There  were,  first,  three  boys,  now  at  home 
from  school  for  the  hohdays.  They  were  called,  re- 
spectively, Charles  James,  Henry,  and  Samuel.  The 
two  younger, — there  were  five  in  all, — were  girls ;  the 
elder,  Florinda,  bore  the  name  of  the  Archbishop  of 
York's  wife,  whose  godchild  she  was :  and  the  younger 
had  been  christened  Grizzel,  after  a  sister  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  The  boys  were  all  clever,  and 
gave  good  promise  of  being  well  able  to  meet  the  cares 
and  trials  of  the  world ;  and  yet  they  were  not  alike  in 
their  dispositions,  and  each  had  his  individual  charac- 
ter, and  each  his  separate  admirers  among  the  doctor's 
friends. 

Charles  James  was  an  exact  and  careful  boy;  he 
never  committed  himself;  he  well  knew  how  much 
was  expected  from  the  eldest  son  of  the  Archdeacon 
of  Barchester,  and  was  therefore  mindful  not  to  mix 
too  freely  with  other  boys.  He  had  not  the  great  tal- 
ents of  his  younger  brothers,  but  he  exceeded  them  in 
judgment  and  propriety  of  demeanour ;  his  fault,  if 
he  had  one,  was  an  over-attention  to  words  instead  of 
things;  there  was  a  thought  too  much  finesse  about 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 


him,  and,  as  even  his  father  sometimes  told  him,  he 
was  too  fond  of  a  compromise. 

The  second  was  the  archdeacon's  favourite  son,  and 
Henry  was  indeed  a  brilliant  boy.  The  versatility  of 
his  genius  was  surprising,  and  the  visitors  at  Plum- 
stead  Episcopi  were  often  amazed  at  the  marvellous 
manner  in  which  he  would,  when  called  on,  adapt  his 
capacity  to  apparently  most  uncongenial  pursuits.  He 
appeared  once  before  a  large  circle  as  Luther  the  re- 
former, and  delighted  them  with  the  perfect  manner 
in  which  he  assumed  the  character ;  and  within  three 
days  he  again  astonished  them  by  acting  the  part  of  a 
Capuchin  friar  to  the  very  life.  For  this  last  exploit 
his  father  gave  him  a  golden  guinea,  and  his  brothers 
said  the  reward  had  been  promised  beforehand  in  the 
event  of  the  performance  being  successful.  He  was 
also  sent  on  a  tour  into  Devonshire  ;  a  treat  which  the 
lad  was  most  anxious  of  enjoying.  His  father's  friends 
there,  however,  did  not  appreciate  his  talents,  and  sad 
accounts  were  sent  home  of  the  perversity  of  his  nature. 
He  was  a  most  courageous  lad,  game  to  the  backbone. 

It  was  soon  known,  both  at  home,  where  he  lived, 
and  within  some  miles  of  Barchester  Cathedral,  and 
also  at  Westminster,  where  he  was  at  school,  that  young 
Henry  could  box  well  and  would  never  own  himself 
beat ;  other  boys  would  fight  while  they  had  a  leg  to 
stand  on,  but  he  would  fight  with  no  leg  at  all.  Those 
backing  him  would  sometimes  think  him  crushed  by 
the  weight  of  blows  and  faint  with  loss  of  blood,  and 
his  friends  would  endeavour  to  withdraw  him  from  the 
contest ;  but  no ;  Henry  never  gave  in,  was  never 
weary  of  the  battle.  The  ring  was  the  only  element 
in  which  he  seemed  to  enjoy  himself ;  and  while  other 


92 


THE  WARDEN. 


boys  were  happy  in  the  number  of  their  friends,  he  re- 
joiced most  in  the  multitude  of  his  foes. 

His  relations  could  not  but  admire  his  pluck,  but 
they  sometimes  were  forced  to  regret  that  he  was  in- 
chned  to  be  a  bully ;  and  those  not  so  partial  to  him 
as  his  father  was,  observed  with  pain  that,  though  he 
could  fawn  to  the  masters  and  the  archdeacon's  friends, 
he  was  imperious  and  masterful  to  the  servants  and  the 
poor. 

But  perhaps  Samuel  was  the  general  favourite ;  and 
dear  little  Soapy,  as  he  was  familiarly  called,  was  as 
engaging  a  child  as  ever  fond  mother  petted.  He  was 
soft  and  gentle  in  his  manners,  and  attractive  in  his 
speech ;  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  melody,  and  every 
action  was  a  grace ;  unlike  his  brothers,  he  was  cour- 
teous to  all,  he  was  affable  to  the  lowly,  and  meek 
even  to  the  very  scullery  maid.  He  was  a  boy  of  great 
promise,  minding  his  books  and  delighting  the  hearts 
of  his  masters.  His  brothers,  however,  were  not  par- 
ticularly fond  of  him ;  they  would  complain  to  their 
mother  that  Soapy's  civility  all  meant  something ;  they 
thought  that  his  voice  was  too  often  listened  to  at 
Plumstead  Episcopi,  and  evidently  feared  that,  as  he 
grew  up,  he  would  have  more  weight  in  the  house  than 
either  of  them.  There  was,  therefore,  a  sort  of  agree- 
ment among  them  to  put  young  Soapy  down.  This, 
however,  was  not  so  easy  to  be  done  ;  Samuel,  though 
young,  was  sharp ;  he  could  not  assume  the  stiff  de- 
corum of  Charles  James,  nor  could  he  fight  like  Henry ; 
but  he  was  a  perfect  master  of  his  own  weapons,  and 
contrived,  in  the  teeth  of  both  of  them,  to  hold  the 
place  which  he  had  assumed.  Henry  declared  that  he 
was  a  false,  cunning  creature;  and  Charles  James, 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 


93 


though  he  always  spoke  of  him  as  his  dear  brother 
Samuel,  was  not  slow  to  say  a  word  against  him  when 
opportunity  offered.  To  speak  the  truth,  Samuel  was 
a  cunning  boy,  and  those  even  who  loved  him  best 
could  not  but  own  that  for  one  so  young,  he  was  too 
adroit  in  choosing  his  words,  and  too  skilled  in  modu- 
lating his  voice. 

The  two  little  girls  Florinda  and  Grizzel  were  nice 
httle  girls  enough,  but  they  did  not  possess  the  sterling 
qualities  of  their  brothers ;  their  voices  were  not  often 
heard  at  Plumstead  Episcopi ;  they  were  bashful  and 
timid  by  nature,  slow  to  speak  before  company  even 
when  asked  to  do  so ;  and  though  they  looked  very 
nice  in  their  clean  white  muslin  frocks  and  pink  sashes, 
they  were  but  little  noticed  by  the  archdeacon's  visitors. 

Whatever  of  submissive  humility  may  have  appeared 
in  the  gait  and  visage  of  the  archdeacon  during  his 
colloquy  with  his  wife  in  the  sanctum  of  their  dressing- 
rooms,  was  dispelled  as  he  entered  his  breakfast-parlour 
with  erect  head  and  powerful  step.  In  the  presence 
of  a  third  person  he  assumed  the  lord  and  master; 
and  that  wise  and  talented  lady  too  well  knew  the  man 
to  whom  her  lot  for  Hfe  was  bound,  to  stretch  her  au- 
thority beyond  the  point  at  which  it  would  be  borne. 
Strangers  at  Plumstead  Episcopi,  when  they  saw  the 
imperious  brow  with  which  he  commanded  silence  from 
the  large  circle  of  visitors,  children,  and  servants  who 
came  together  in  the  morning  to  hear  him  read  the 
word  of  God,  and  watched  how  meekly  that  wife 
seated  herself  behind  her  basket  of  keys  with  a  little 
girl  on  each  side,  as  she  caught  that  commanding 
glance ;  strangers,  I  say,  seeing  this,  could  little  guess 
that  some  fifteen  minutes  since  she  had  stoutly  held  her 


94 


THE  WARDEN. 


ground  against  him,  hardly  allowing  him  to  open  his 
mouth  in  his  own  defence.  But  such  is  the  tact  and 
talent  of  women! 

And  now  let  us  observe  the  well-furnished  breakfast- 
parlour  at  Plumstead  Episcopi,  and  the  comfortable 
air  of  all  the  belongings  of  the  rectory.  Comfortable 
they  certainly  were,  but  neither  gorgeous  nor  even 
grand ;  indeed,  considering  the  money  that  had  been 
spent  there,  the  eye  and  taste  might  have  been  better 
served ;  there  was  an  air  of  heaviness  about  the  rooms 
which  might  have  been  avoided  without  any  sacrifice 
to  propriety ;  colours  might  have  been  better  chosen 
and  lights  more  perfectly  diffused ;  but  perhaps  in  do- 
ing so  the  thorough  clerical  aspect  of  the  whole  might 
have  been  somewhat  marred.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not 
without  ample  consideration  that  those  thick,  dark, 
costly  carpets  were  put  down;  those  embossed  but 
sombre  papers  hung  up ;  those  heavy  curtains  draped 
so  as  to  half-exclude  the  light  of  the  sun.  Nor  were 
these  old-fashioned  chairs,  bought  at  a  price  far  exceed- 
ing that  now  given  for  more  modern  goods,  without 
a  purpose.  The  breakfast-service  on  the  table  was 
equally  costly  and  equally  plain.  The  apparent  object 
had  been  to  spend  money  without  obtaining  brilliancy 
or  splendour.  The  urn  was  of  thick  and  solid  silver, 
as  were  also  the  tea-pot,  coffee-pot,  cream-ewer,  and 
sugar-bowl ;  the  cups  were  old,  dim  dragon  china, 
worth  about  a  pound  a  piece,  but  very  despicable  in 
the  eyes  of  the  uninitiated.  The  silver  forks  were  so 
heavy  as  to  be  disagreeable  to  the  hand,  and  the  bread- 
basket was  of  a  weight  really  formidable  to  any  but 
robust  persons.  The  tea  consumed  was  the  very  best, 
the  coffee  the  very  blackest,  the  cream  the  very  thick- 


PLUM  STEAD  EPISCOPI. 


95 


est ;  there  was  dry  toast  and  buttered  toast,  muffins 
and  crumpets ;  hot  bread  and  cold  bread,  white  bread 
and  brown  bread,  home-made  bread  and  bakers'  bread, 
wheaten  bread  and  oaten  bread ;  and  if  there  be  other 
breads  than  these  they  were  there ;  there  were  eggs  in 
napkins,  and  crispy  bits  of  bacon  under  silver  covers ; 
and  there  were  little  fishes  in  a  httle  box,  and  devilled 
kidneys  frizzling  on  a  hot- water  dish ; — which,  by-the- 
bye,  were  placed  closely  contiguous  to  the  plate  of  the 
worthy  archdeacon  himself.  Over  and  above  this,  on 
a  snow-white  napkin,  spread  upon  the  sideboard,  was 
a  huge  ham  and  a  huge  sirloin ;  the  latter  having  laden 
the  dinner  table  on  the  previous  evening.  Such  was 
the  ordinary  fare  at  Plumstead  Episcopi. 

And  yet  I  have  never  found  the  rectory  a  pleasant 
house.  The  fact  that  man  shall  not  Hve  by  bread 
alone  seemed  to  be  somewhat  forgotten ;  and  noble  as 
was  the  appearance  of  the  host,  and  sweet  and  good- 
natured  as  was  the  face  of  the  hostess,  talented  as  were 
the  children,  and  excellent  as  were  the  viands  and  the 
wines,  in  spite  of  these  attractions,  I  generally  found 
the  rectory  somewhat  dull.  After  breakfast  the  arch- 
deacon would  retire, — of  course  to  his  clerical  pursuits. 
Mrs.  Grantly,  I  presume,  inspected  her  kitchen,  though 
she  had  a  first-rate  housekeeper,  with  sixty  pounds  a 
year;  and  attended  to  the  lessons  of  Florinda  and 
Grizzel,  though  she  had  an  excellent  governess  with 
thirty  pounds  a  year.  At  any  rate  she  disappeared  : 
and  I  never  could  make  companions  of  the  boys. 
Charles  James,  though  he  always  looked  as  though 
there  was  something  in  him,  never  seemed  to  have 
much  to  say  |  and  what  he  did  say  he  would  always 
unsay  the  next  minute.    He  told  me  once,  that  he  con- 


96 


THE  WARDEN. 


sidered  cricket,  on  the  whole,  to  be  a  gentleman-like 
game  for  boys,  provided  they  would  play  without  run- 
ning about ;  and  that  fives,  also,  was  a  seemly  game, 
so  that  those  who  played  it  never  heated  themselves. 
Henry  once  quarrelled  with  me  for  taking  his  sister 
Grizzel's  part  in  a  contest  between  them  as  to  the  best 
mode  of  using  a  watering-pot  for  the  garden  flowers ; 
and  from  that  day  to  this  he  has  not  spoken  to  me, 
though  he  speaks  at  me  often  enough.  For  half  an 
hour  or  so  I  certainly  did  like  Sammy's  gentle  speeches ; 
but  one  gets  tired  of  honey,  and  I  found  that  he  pre- 
ferred the  more  admiring  listeners  whom  he  met  in  the 
kitchen-garden  and  back  precincts  of  the  establishment. 
Besides,  I  think  I  once  caught  Sammy  fibbing. 

On  the  whole,  therefore,  I  found  the  rectory  a  dull 
house,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  everything  there 
was  of  the  very  best. 

After  breakfast,  on  the  morning  of  which  we  are 
writing,  the  archdeacon,  as  usual,  retired  to  his  study, 
intimating  that  he  was  going  to  be  very  busy,  but  that 
he  would  sQe  Mr.  Chadwick  if  he  called.  On  entering 
this  sacred  room  he  carefully  opened  the  paper  case 
on  which  he  was  wont  to  compose  his  favourite  ser- 
mons, and  spread  on  it  a  fair  sheet  of  paper  and  one 
partly  written  on ;  he  then  placed  his  inkstand,  looked 
at  his  pen,  and  folded  his  blotting  paper ;  having  done 
so,  he  got  up  again  from  his  seat,  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fireplace,  and  yawned  comfortably,  stretching 
out  vastly  his  huge  arms,  and  opening  his  burly  chest. 
He  then  walked  across  the  room  and  locked  the  door ; 
and  having  so  prepared  himself,  he  threw  himself  into 
his  easy- chair,  took  from  a  secret  drawer  beneath  his 
table  a  volume  of  Rabelais,  and  began  to  amuse  him- 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 


97 


self  with  the  witty  mischief  of  Panurge.  So  passed  the 
archdeacon's  morning  on  that  day. 

He  was  left  undisturbed  at  his  studies  for  an  hour 
or  two,  when  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  Mr. 
Chadwick  was  announced.  Rabelais  retired  into  the 
secret  drawer,  the  easy-chair  seemed  knowingly  to  be- 
take itself  off,  and  when  the  archdeacon  quickly  undid 
his  bolt,  he  was  discovered  by  the  steward  working,  as 
usual,  for  that  church  of  which  he  was  so  useful  a  pillar. 
Mr.  Chadwick  had  just  come  from  London,  and  was, 
therefore,  known  to  be  the  bearer  of  important  news. 

"  We  've  got  Sir  Abraham's  opinion  at  last,"  said 
Mr.  Chadwick,  as  he  seated  himself. 

"  Well ;  well ;  well ! "  exclaimed  the  archdeacon  im- 
patiently. 

"  Oh,  it 's  as  long  as  my  arm,"  said  the  other ;  it 
can't  be  told  in  a  word,  but  you  can  read  it;"  and  he 
handed  him  a  copy,  in  heaven  knows  how  many  spun- 
out  folios,  of  the  opinion  which  the  attorney-general 
had  managed  to  cram  on  the  back  and  sides,  of  the 
case  as  originally  submitted  to  him. 

"  The  upshot  is,"  said  Chadwick,  "  that  there  *s  a 
screw  loose  in  their  case,  and  we  had  better  do  noth- 
ing. They  are  proceeding  against  Mr.  Harding  and 
myself,  and  Sir  Abraham  holds  that,  under  the  wording 
of  the  will,  and  subsequent  arrangements  legally  sanc- 
tioned, Mr.  Harding  and  I  are  only  paid  servants.  The 
defendants  should  have  been  either  the  Corporation  of 
Barchester,  or  possibly  the  chapter,  or  your  father." 

"  W — hoo,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "  so  Master  Bold 
is  on  a  wrong  scent,  is  he  ?  " 

"That  's  Sir  Abraham's  opinion;  but  any  scent 
almost  would  be  a  wrong  scent.  Sir  Abraham  thinks 
7 


98 


THE  WARDEN. 


that  if  they 'd  taken  the  corporation,  or  the  chapter,  we 
could  have  baffled  them.  The  bishop,  he  thinks, 
would  be  the  surest  shot;  but  even  there  we  could 
plead  that  the  bishop  is  only  visitor,  and  that  he  has 
never  made  himself  a  consenting  party  to  the  perform- 
ance of  other  duties." 

"  That 's  quite  clear,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Not  quite  so  clear,"  said  the  other.  "  You  see  the 
will  says, '  My  lord,  the  bishop,  being  graciously  pleased 
to  see  that  due  justice  be  done.'  Now,  it  may  be  a 
question  whether,  in  accepting  and  administering  the 
patronage,  your  father  has  not  accepted  also  the  other 
duties  assigned.  It  is  doubtful,  however;  but  even 
if  they  hit  that  nail, — and  they  are  far  off  from  that 
yet, — the  point  is  so  nice,  as  Sir  Abraham  says,  that 
you  would  force  them  into  fifteen  thousand  pounds' 
cost  before  they  could  bring  it  to  an  issue!  And 
where 's  that  sum  of  money  to  come  from  ?  " 

The  archdeacon  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight. 
He  had  never  doubted  the  justice  of  his  case,  but  he 
had  begun  to  have  some  dread  of  unjust  success  on 
the  part  of  his  enemies.  It  was  delightful  to  him  thus 
to  hear  that  their  cause  was  surrounded  with  such 
rocks  and  shoals ; — such  causes  of  shipwreck  unseen 
by  the  landsman's  eye,  but  visible  enough  to  the  keen 
eyes  of  practical  law  mariners.  How  wrong  his  wife 
was  to  wish  that  Bold  should  marry  Eleanor!  Bold! 
Why,  if  he  should  be  ass  enough  to  persevere,  he  would 
be  a  beggar  before  he  knew  whom  he  was  at  law  with ! 

"  That 's  excellent,  Chad  wick ; — that 's  excellent!  I 
told  you  Sir  Abraham  was  the  man  for  us ; "  and  he 
put  down  on  the  table  the  copy  of  the  opinion,  and 
patted  it  fondly. 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI.  99 

"  Don't  you  let  that  be  seen  though,  archdeacon." 
"Who? — I! — Not  for  worlds,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  People  will  talk,  you  know,  archdeacon." 
"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Because,  if  that  gets  abroad,  it  would  teach  them 
how  to  fight  their  own  battle." 
"  Quite  true,"  said  the  doctor. 

"No  one  here  in  Barchester  ought  to  see  that  but 
you  and  I,  archdeacon." 

"  No,  no,  certainly  no  one  else,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, pleased  with  the  closeness  of  the  confidence ; 
"no  one  else  shall." 

"Mrs.  Grantly  is  very  interested  in  the  matter,  I 
know,"  said  Mr.  Chadwick. 

Did  the  archdeacon  wink,  or  did  he  not?  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  he  did  not  quite  wink ;  but  that  with- 
out such,  perhaps,  unseemly  gesture  he  communicated 
to  Mr.  Chadwick,  with  the  corner  of  his  eye,  intimation 
that,  deep  as  was  Mrs.  Grantly's  interest  in  the  matter, 
it  should  not  procure  for  her  a  perusal  of  that  docu- 
ment; and  at  the  same  time  he  partly  opened  the 
small  drawer,  above  spoken  of,  deposited  the  paper 
on  the  volume  of  Rabelais,  and  showed  to  Mr.  Chad- 
wick the  nature  of  the  key  which  guarded  these  hidden 
treasures.  The  careful  steward  then  expressed  himself 
contented.  Ah!  vain  man!  He  could  fasten  up  his 
Rabelais,  and  other  things  secret,  with  all  the  skill  of 
Bramah  or  of  Chubb ;  but  where  could  he  fasten  up 
the  key  which  solved  these  mechanical  mysteries?  It 
is  probable  to  us  that  the  contents  of  no  drawer  in  that 
house  were  unknown  to  its  mistress,  and  we  think, 
moreover,  that  she  was  entitled  to  all  such  knowledge. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Chadwick,  "  we  must,  of  course,  tell 


lOO 


THE  WARDEN. 


your  father  and  Mr.  Harding  so  much  of  Sir  Abra- 
ham's opinion  as  will  satisfy  them  that  the  matter  is 
doing  well." 

"  Oh,  certainly, — yes,  of  course,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  You  had  better  let  them  know  that  Sir  Abraham  is 
of  opinion  that  there  is  no  case  at  any  rate  against 
Mr.  Harding;  and  that  as  the  action  is  worded  at 
present,  it  must  fall  to  the  ground ;  they  must  be  non- 
suited if  they  carry  it  on ;  you  had  better  tell  Mr. 
Harding,  that  Sir  Abraham  is  clearly  of  opinion  that 
he  is  only  a  servant,  and  as  such,  not  Hable.  Or  if  you 
like  it,  I  '11  see  Mr.  Harding  myself." 

"  Oh,  I  must  see  him  to-morrow,  and  my  father  too, 
and  I  '11  explain  to  them  exactly  so  much.  You  won't 
go  before  lunch,  Mr.  Chadwick.  Well,  if  you  will,  you 
must,  for  I  know  your  time  is  precious ;"  and  he  shook 
hands  with  the  diocesan  steward,  and  bowed  him  out. 

The  archdeacon  had  again  recourse  to  his  drawer,  and 
twice  read  through  the  essence  of  Sir  Abraham  Hap- 
hazard's law-enlightened  and  law-bewildered  brains. 
It  was  very  clear  that  to  Sir  Abraham,  the  justice  of 
the  old  men's  claim  or  the  justice  of  Mr.  Harding's 
defence  were  ideas  that  had  never  presented  them- 
selves. A  legal  victory  over  an  opposing  party  was 
the  service  for  which  Sir  Abraham  was,  as  he  imag- 
ined, to  be  paid ;  and  that  he,  according  to  his  hghts, 
had  dihgently  laboured  to  achieve,  and  with  prob- 
able hope  of  success.  Of  the  intense  desire  which 
Mr.  Harding  felt  to  be  assured  on  fit  authority,  that 
he  was  wronging  no  man,  that  he  was  entitled  in  true 
equity  to  his  income,  that  he  might  sleep  at  night  with- 
out pangs  of  conscience,  that  he  was  no  robber,  no 
spoiler  of  the  poor ;  that  he  and  all  the  world  might  be 


PLUMSTEAD  EPISCOPI. 


lOI 


Openly  convinced  that  he  was  not  the  man  which  the 
Jupiter  had  described  him  to  be ; — of  such  longings  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Harding,  Sir  Abraham  was  entirely  ig- 
norant ;  nor,  indeed,  could  it  be  looked  on  as  part  of 
his  business  to  gratify  such  desires.  Such  was  not  the 
system  on  which  his  battles  were  fought,  and  victories 
gained.  Success  was  his  object,  and  he  was  generally 
successful.  He  conquered  his  enemies  by  their  weak- 
ness rather  than  by  his  own  strength,  and  it  had  been 
found  almost  impossible  to  make  up  a  case,  in  which 
Sir  Abraham,  as  an  antagonist,  would  not  find  a  flav/. 

The  archdeacon  was  delighted  with  the  closeness  of 
the  reasoning.  To  do  him  justice,  it  was  not  a  selfish 
triumph  that  he  desired;  he  would  personally  lose 
nothing  by  defeat,  or  at  least  what  he  might  lose  did 
not  actuate  him.  But  neither  was  it  love  of  justice 
which  made  him  so  anxious,  nor  even  mainly  solicitude 
for  his  father-in-law.  He  was  fighting  a  part  of  a 
never-ending  battle  against  a  never-conquered  foe, — 
that  of  the  church  against  its  enemies. 

He  knew  Mr.  Harding  could  not  pay  all  the  expense 
of  these  doings, — for  these  long  opinions  of  Sir  Abra- 
ham's, these  causes  to  be  pleaded,  these  speeches  to 
be  made,  these  various  courts  through  which  the  case 
was,  he  presumed,  to  be  dragged.  He  knew  that  he 
and  his  father  must  at  least  bear  the  heavier  portion  of 
this  tremendous  cost.  But  to  do  the  archdeacon  jus- 
tice, he  did  not  recoil  from  this.  He  was  a  man  fond 
of  obtaining  money,  greedy  of  a  large  income,  but 
open-handed  enough  in  expending  it,  and  it  was  a 
triumph  to  him  to  foresee  the  success  of  this  measure, 
although  he  might  be  called  on  to  pay  so  dearly  for  it 
himself. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  CONFERENCE. 

On  the  following  morning  the  archdeacon  was  with 
his  father  betimes,  and  a  note  was  sent  down  to  the 
warden  begging  his  attendance  at  the  palace.  Dr. 
Grantly,  as  he  cogitated  on  the  matter,  leaning  back 
in  his  brougham  as  he  journeyed  into  Barchester,  felt 
that  it  would  be  difficult  to  communicate  his  own  satis- 
faction either  to  his  father  or  his  father-in-law.  He 
wanted  success  on  his  own  side  and  discomfiture  on  that 
of  his  enemies.  The  bishop  wanted  peace  on  the  sub- 
ject ;  a  settled  peace  if  possible,  but  peace  at  any  rate 
till  the  short  remainder  of  his  own  days  had  spun  it- 
self out.  Mr.  Harding  required,  not  only  success  and 
peace,  but  demanded  also  that  he  might  stand  justified 
before  the  world. 

The  bishop,  however,  was  comparatively  easy  to 
deal  with;  and  before  the  arrival  of  the  other,  the 
dutiful  son  had  persuaded  his  father  that  all  was  going 
on  well,  and  then  the  warden  arrived. 

It  was  Mr.  Harding's  wont,  whenever  he  spent  a 
morning  at  the  palace,  to  seat  himself  immediately  at 
the  bishop's  elbow,  the  bishop  occupying  a  huge  arm- 
chair fitted  up  with  candlesticks,  a  reading  table,  a 
drawer,  and  other  paraphernalia,  the  position  of  which 
chair  was  never  moved,  summer  or  winter ;  and  when, 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


as  was  usual,  the  archdeacon  was  there  also,  he  con- 
fronted the  two  elders,  who  thus  were  enabled  to  fight 
the  battle  against  him  together; — and  together  submit 
to  defeat,  for  such  was  their  constant  fate. 

Our  warden  now  took  his  accustomed  place,  having 
greeted  his  son-in-law  as  he  entered,  and  then  affection- 
ately inquired  after  his  friend's  health.  There  was  a 
gentleness  about  the  bishop  to  which  the  soft  womanly 
affection  of  Mr.  Harding  particularly  endeared  itself, 
and  it  was  quaint  to  see  how  the  two  mild  old  priests 
pressed  each  other's  hands,  and  smiled  and  made  little 
signs  of  love. 

"  Sir  Abraham's  opinion  has  come  at  last,"  began  the 
archdeacon.  Mr.  Harding  had  heard  so  much,  and 
was  most  anxious  to  know  the  result. 

It  is  quite  favourable,"  said  the  bishop,  pressing 
his  friend's  arm.    "  I  am  so  glad." 

Mr.  Harding  looked  at  the  mighty  bearer  of  the  im- 
portant news  for  confirmation  of  these  glad  tidings. 

"Yes,"  said  the  archdeacon;  "Sir  Abraham  has 
given  most  minute  attention  to  the  case;  indeed,  I 
knew  he  would ; — most  minute  attention,  and  his  opin- 
ion is, — and  as  to  his  opinion  on  such  a  subject  being 
correct,  no  one  who  knows  Sir  Abraham's  character 
can  doubt, — his  opinion  is,  that  they  have  n't  got  a  leg 
to  stand  on." 

"  But  as  how,  archdeacon?  " 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place ;  but  you  're  no  lawyer, 

warden,  and  I  doubt  you  won't  understand  it ;  the  gist 
of  the  matter  is  this ; — under  Hiram's  will  two  paid 
guardians  have  been  selected  for  the  hospital ;  the  law 
will  say  two  paid  servants,  and  you  and  I  won't  quar- 
rel with  the  name." 


104 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  At  any  rate  I  will  not  if  I  am  one  of  the  servants," 
said  Mr.  Harding.    "A  rose,  you  know  

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  archdeacon,  impatient  of  poetry 
at  such  a  time.  "Well,  two  paid  servants,  we  '11 
say;  one  to  look  after  the  men  and  the  other  to 
look  after  the  money.  You  and  Chadwick  are  these 
two  servants,  and  whether  either  of  you  be  paid  too 
much,  or  too  little,  more  or  less  in  fact  than  the 
founder  willed,  it 's  as  clear  as  daylight  that  no  one 
can  fall  foul  of  either  of  you  for  receiving  an  allotted 
stipend." 

"That  does  seem  clear,"  said  the  bishop,  who  had 
winced  visibly  at  the  words  servants  and  stipend, 
which,  however,  appeared  to  have  caused  no  uneasi- 
ness to  the  archdeacon. 

"  Quite  clear,"  said  he,  "  and  very  satisfactory.  In 
point  of  fact,  it  being  necessary  to  select  such  servants 
for  the  use  of  the  hospital,  the  pay  to  be  given  to  them 
must  depend  on  the  rate  of  pay  for  such  services,  ac- 
cording to  their  market  value  at  the  period  in  question ; 
and  those  who  manage  the  hospital  must  be  the  only 
judges  of  this." 

"And  who  does  manage  the  hospital?"  asked  the 
warden. 

"  Oh,  let  them  find  that  out ;  that 's  another  question ; 
the  action  is  brought  against  you  and  Chadwick ;  that 's 
your  defence,  and  a  perfect  and  full  defence  it  is.  Now 
that  I  think  very  satisfactory." 

"  Well,"  said  the  bishop,  looking  inquiringly  up  into 
his  friend's  face,  who  sat  silent  awhile,  and  apparently 
not  so  well  satisfied. 

"  And  conclusive,"  continued  the  archdeacon ;  "  if 
they  press  it  to  a  jury,  which  they  won't  do,  no  twelve 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


men  in  England  will  take  five  minutes  to  decide 
against  them." 

"  But  according  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  "  I  might 
as  well  have  sixteen  hundred  a  year  as  eight,  if  the  man- 
agers choose  to  allot  it  to  me ;  and  as  I  am  one  of  the 
managers,  if  not  the  chief  manager,  myself,  that  can 
hardly  be  a  just  arrangement." 

"  Oh,  well ;  all  that 's  nothing  to  the  question ;  the 
question  is,  whether  this  intruding  fellow,  and  a  lot  of 
cheating  attorneys  and  pestilent  dissenters,  are  to  inter- 
fere with  an  arrangement  which  every  one  knows  is  es- 
sentially just  and  serviceable  to  the  church.  Pray  don't 
let  us  be  splitting  hairs,  and  that  amongst  ourselves,  or 
there  '11  never  be  an  end  of  the  cause  or  the  cost." 

Mr.  Harding  again  sat  silent  for  a  while,  during  which 
the  bishop  once  and  again  pressed  his  arm,  and  looked 
in  his  face  to  see  if  he  could  catch  a  gleam  of  a  con- 
tented and  eased  mind ;  but  there  was  no  such  gleam, 
and  the  poor  warden  continued  playing  sad  dirges  on 
invisible  stringed  instruments  in  all  manner  of  positions. 
He  wap  ruminating  in  his  mind  on  this  opinion  of  Sir 
Abraham,  looking  to  it  wearily  and  earnestly  for  satis- 
faction, but  finding  none.  At  last  he  said,  "  Did  you 
see  the  opinion,  archdeacon?  " 

The  archdeacon  said  he  had  not, — that  was  to  say, 
he  had, — that  was,  he  had  not  seen  the  opinion  itself ; 
he  had  seen  what  had  been  called  a  copy,  but  he  could 
not  say  whether  of  a  whole  or  part ;  nor  could  he  say 
that  what  he  had  seen  were  the  ipsissima  verba  of  the 
great  man  himself ;  but  what  he  had  seen  contained 
exactly  the  decision  which  he  had  announced,  and 
which  he  again  declared  to  be  to  liis  mind  extremely 
satisfactory. 


io6 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  I  should  like  to  see  the  opinion,"  said  the  warden ; 
— "  that  is,  a  copy  of  it." 

"  Well ;  I  suppose  you  can  if  you  make  a  point  of 
it ;  but  I  don't  see  the  use  myself.  Of  course  it  is  es- 
sential that  the  purport  of  it  should  not  be  known,  and 
it  is  therefore  unadvisable  to  multiply  copies." 

''Why  should  it  not  be  known?  "  asked  the  warden. 

'*  What  a  question  for  a  man  to  ask! "  said  the  arch- 
deacon, throwing  up  his  hands  in  token  of  his  surprise ; 
"  but  it  is  like  you.  A  child  is  not  more  innocent  than 
you  are  in  matters  of  business.  Can't  you  see  that  if 
we  tell  them  that  no  action  will  lie  against  you,  but 
that  one  may  possibly  he  against  some  other  person  or 
persons,  that  we  shall  be  putting  weapons  into  their 
hands,  and  be  teaching  them  how  to  cut  our  own 
throats?  " 

The  warden  again  sat  silent,  and  the  bishop  again 
looked  at  him  wistfully.  "The  only  thing  we  have 
now  to  do,"  continued  the  archdeacon,  "  is  to  remain 
quiet,  hold  our  peace,  and  let  them  play  their  own  game 
as  they  please." 

"  We  are  not  to  make  known  then,"  said  the  warden, 
"  that  we  have  consulted  the  attorney-general,  and  that 
we  are  advised  by  him  that  the  founder's  will  is  fully 
and  fairly  carried  out." 

''God  bless  my  soul!"  said  the  archdeacon,  "how 
odd  it  is  that  you  will  not  see  that  all  we  are  to  do  is 
to  do  nothing.  Why  should  we  say  anything  about 
the  founder's  will?  We  are  in  possession;  and  we 
know  that  they  are  not  in  a  position  to  put  us  out ; 
surely  that  is  enough  for  the  present." 

Mr.  Harding  rose  from  his  seat  and  paced  thought- 
fully up  and  down  the  library,  the  bishop  the  while 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


watching  him  painfully  at  every  turn,  and  the  arch- 
deacon continuing  to  pour  forth  his  convictions  that 
the  affair  was  in  a  state  to  satisfy  any  prudent  mind. 

"  And  the  Jupiter?  "  said  the  warden,  stopping  sud- 
denly. 

"  Oh!  the  Jupiter,"  answered  the  other.  "  The  Ju- 
piter can  break  no  bones.  You  must  bear  with  that ; 
there  is  much  of  course  which  it  is  our  bounden  duty 
to  bear ;  it  cannot  be  all  roses  for  us  here,"  and  the 
archdeacon  looked  exceedingly  moral;  ''besides  the 
matter  is  too  trivial,  of  too  little  general  interest  to  be 
mentioned  again  in  the  Jupiter,  unless  we  stir  up  the 
subject."  And  the  archdeacon  again  looked  exceed- 
ingly knowing  and  worldly  wise. 

The  warden  continued  his  walk ;  the  hard  and  sting- 
ing words  of  that  newspaper  article,  each  one  of  which 
had  thrust  a  thorn  as  it  were  into  his  inmost  soul,  were 
fresh  in  his  memory ;  he  had  read  it  more  than  once, 
word  by  word,  and  what  was  worse,  he  fancied  it  was 
as  well  known  to  every  one  as  to  himself.  Was  he  to 
be  looked  on  as  the  unjust  griping  priest  he  had  been 
there  described,  was  he  to  be  pointed  at  as  the  con- 
sumer of  the  bread  of  the  poor,  and  to  be  allowed  no 
means  of  refuting  such  charges,  of  clearing  his  be- 
grimed name,  of  standing  innocent  in  the  world,  as 
hitherto  he  had  stood?  Was  he  to  bear  all  this,  to  re- 
ceive as  usual  his  now  hated  income,  and  be  known  as 
one  of  those  greedy  priests  who  by  their  rapacity  have 
brought  disgrace  on  their  church?  And  why?  Why 
should  he  bear  all  this?  Why  should  he  die,  for  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  live,  under  such  a  weight  of  ob- 
loquy? As  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  he  re- 
solved in  his  misery  and  enthusiasm  that  he  could  with 


io8 


THE  WARDEN. 


pleasure,  if  he  were  allowed,  give  up  his  place,  aban- 
don his  pleasant  home,  leave  the  hospital,  and  live 
poorly,  happily,  and  with  an  unsuUied  name,  on  the 
small  remainder  of  his  means. 

He  was  a  man  somewhat  shy  of  speaking  of  himself, 
even  before  those  who  knew  him  best,  and  whom  he 
loved  the  most ;  but  at  last  it  burst  forth  from  him,  and 
with  a  somewhat  jerking  eloquence  he  declared  that  he 
could  not,  would  not,  bear  this  misery  any  longer. 

"  If  it  can  be  proved,"  said  he  at  last,  "  that  I  have 
a  just  and  honest  right  to  this,  as  God  well  knows  I 
always  deemed  I  had; — if  this  salary  or  stipend  be 
really  my  due,  I  am  not  less  anxious  than  another  to 
retain  it.  I  have  the  well-being  of  my  child  to  look  to. 
I  am  too  old  to  miss  without  some  pain  the  comforts 
to  which  I  have  been  used ;  and  I  am,  as  others  are, 
anxious  to  prove  to  the  world  that  I  have  been  right, 
and  to  uphold  the  place  I  have  held.  But  I  cannot 
do  it  at  such  a  cost  as  this.  I  cannot  bear  this.  Could 
you  tell  me  to  do  so  ?  "  And  he  appealed,  almost  in 
tears,  to  the  bishop,  who  had  left  his  chair,  and  was 
now  leaning  on  the  warden's  arm  as  he  stood  on 
the  further  side  of  the  table  facing  the  archdeacon. 

Could  you  tell  me  to  sit  there  at  ease,  indifferent,  and 
satisfied,  while  such  things  as  these  are  said  loudly  of 
me  in  the  world?  " 

The  bishop  could  feel  for  him  and  sympathise  with 
him,  but  he  could  not  advise  him.  He  could  only  say, 
"  No,  no,  you  shall  be  asked  to  do  nothing  that  is  pain- 
ful ;  you  shall  do  just  what  your  heart  tells  you  to  be 
right ;  you  shall  do  whatever  you  think  best  yourself. 
Theophilus,  don't  advise  him,  pray  don't  advise  the 
warden  to  do  anything  which  is  painful." 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


But  the  archdeacon,  though  he  could  not  sympa- 
thise, could  advise ;  and  he  saw  that  the  time  had 
come  when  it  behoved  him  to  do  so  in  a  somewhat 
peremptory  manner. 

''Why,  my  lord,"  he  said,  speaking  to  his  father; — 
and  when  he  called  his  father  *  my  lord '  the  good  old 
bishop  shook  in  his  shoes,  for  he  knew  that  an  evil 
time  was  coming.  "  Why,  my  lord,  there  are  two  ways 
of  giving  advice ;  there  is  advice  that  m.ay  be  good  for 
the  present  day ;  and  there  is  advice  that  may  be  good 
for  days  to  come.  Now  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  give 
the  former,  if  it  be  incompatible  with  the  other." 

"  No  ;  no  ;  no  ;  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  bishop,  re- 
seating himself,  and  shading  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Mr.  Harding  sat  down  with  his  back  to  the  further 
wall,  playing  to  himself  some  air  fitted  for  so  calami- 
tous an  occasion,  and  the  archdeacon  said  out  his  say 
standing,  with  his  back  to  the  empty  fireplace. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  but  that  much  pain  will 
spring  out  of  this  unnecessarily  raised  question.  We 
must  all  have  foreseen  that,  and  the  matter  has  in  no 
wise  gone  on  worse  than  we  expected.  But  it  will  be 
weak,  yes,  and  wicked  also,  to  abandon  the  cause  and 
own  ourselves  wrong,  because  the  inquiry  is  painful. 
It  is  not  only  ourselves  we  have  to  look  to ;  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  the  interest  of  the  church  is  in  our  keeping. 
Should  it  be  found  that  one  after  another  of  those  who 
hold  preferment  abandoned  it  whenever  it  might  be 
attacked,  is  it  not  plain  that  such  attacks  would  be  re- 
newed till  nothing  was  left  us?  and  that,  if  so  deserted, 
the  Church  of  England  must  fall  to  the  ground  alto- 
gether? If  this  be  true  of  many,  it  is  true  of  one. 
Were  you,  accused  as  you  now  are,  to  throw  up  the 


no 


THE  WARDEN. 


wardenship,  and  to  relinquish  the  preferment  which  is 
your  property,  with  the  vain  object  of  proving  yourself 
disinterested,  you  would  fail  in  that  object,  you  would 
inflict  a  desperate  blow  on  your  brother  clergymen,  you 
would  encourage  every  cantankerous  dissenter  in  Eng- 
land to  make  a  similar  charge  against  some  source  of 
clerical  revenue,  and  you  would  do  your  best  to  dis- 
hearten those  who  are  most  anxious  to  defend  you  and 
uphold  your  position.  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  weak, 
or  more  wrong.  It  is  not  that  you  think  that  there  is 
any  justice  in  these  charges,  or  that  you  doubt  yoiur  own 
right  to  the  wardenship.  You  are  convinced  of  your 
own  honesty,  and  yet  would  yield  to  them  through 
cowardice." 

Cowardice !  "  said  the  bishop,  expostulating.  Mr. 
Harding  sat  unmoved,  gazing  on  his  son-in-law. 

"Well;  would  it  not  be  cowardice?  would  he  not 
do  so  because  he  is  afraid  to  endure  the  evil  things 
which  will  be  falsely  spoken  of  him?  Would  that  not 
be  cowardice?  And  now  let  us  see  the  extent  of  the 
evil  which  you  dread.  The  Jupiter  publishes  an  article 
which  a  great  many,  no  doubt,  will  read ;  but  of  those 
who  understand  the  subject  how  many  will  believe  the 
Jupiter?  Every  one  knows  what  its  object  is.  It  has 
taken  up  the  case  against  Lord  Guildford  and  against 
the  Dean  of  Rochester,  and  that  against  half  a  dozen 
bishops ;  and  does  not  every  one  know  that  it  would 
take  up  any  case  of  the  kind,  right  or  wrong,  false  or 
true,  with  known  justice  or  known  injustice,  if  by  do- 
ing so  it  could  further  its  own  views?  Does  not  all 
the  world  know  this  of  the  Jupiter?  Who  that  really 
knows  you  will  think  the  worse  of  you  for  what  the  Ju- 
piter says?    And  why  care  for  those  who  do  not  know 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


Ill 


you?  I  will  say  nothing  of  your  own  comfort,  but  I 
do  say  that  you  could  not  be  justified  in  throwing  up, 
in  a  fit  of  passion,  for  such  it  would  be,  the  only  main- 
tenance that  Eleanor  has.  And  if  you  did  so,  if  you 
really  did  vacate  the  wardenship,  and  submit  to  ruin, 
what  would  that  profit  you?  If  you  have  no  future 
right  to  the  income,  you  have  had  no  past  right  to  it ; 
and  the  very  fact  of  your  abandoning  your  position, 
would  create  a  demand  for  repayment  of  that  which 
you  have  already  received  and  spent." 

The  poor  warden  groaned  as  he  sat  perfectly  still, 
looking  up  at  the  hard-hearted  orator  who  thus  tor- 
mented him,  and  the  bishop  echoed  the  sound  faintly 
from  behind  his  hands.  But  the  archdeacon  cared 
little  for  such  signs  of  weakness,  and  completed  his 
exhortation. 

"  But  let  us  suppose  the  office  to  be  left  vacant,  and 
that  your  own  troubles  concerning  it  were  over ;  would 
that  satisfy  you?  Are  your  only  aspirations  in  the 
matter  confined  to  yourself  and  family?  I  know  they 
are  not.  I  know  you  are  as  anxious  as  any  of  us  for 
the  church  to  which  we  belong.  And  what  a  grievous 
blow  would  such  an  act  of  apostasy  give  her!  You 
owe  it  to  the  church  of  which  you  are  a  member  and 
a  minister,  to  bear  with  this  affliction,  however  severe 
it  may  be.  You  owe  it  to  my  father,  who  instituted 
you,  to  support  his  rights.  You  owe  it  to  those  who 
preceded  you  to  assert  the  legality  of  their  position. 
You  owe  it  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  you,  to 
maintain  uninjured  for  them  that  which  you  received 
uninjured  from  others.  And  you  owe  to  us  all  the 
unflinching  assistance  of  perfect  brotherhood  in  this 
matter,  so  that  upholding  one  another  we  may  sup- 


112 


THE  WARDEN. 


port  our  great  cause  without  blushing  and  without  dis- 
grace." 

And  so  the  archdeacon  ceased,  and  stood  self-satis- 
fied, watching  the  effect  of  his  spoken  wisdom. 

The  warden  felt  himself,  to  a  certain  extent,  stifled ; 
he  would  have  given  the  world  to  get  himself  out  into 
the  open  air  without  speaking  to,  or  noticing  those 
who  were  in  the  room  with  him ;  but  this  was  impossi- 
ble. He  could  not  leave  without  saying  something, 
and  he  felt  himself  confounded  by  the  archdeacon's 
eloquence.  There  was  a  heavy,  unfeeling,  unanswer- 
able truth  in  what  he  had  said ;  there  was  so  much 
practical,  but  odious  common  sense  in  it,  that  he 
neither  knew  how  to  assent  or  to  differ.  If  it  were 
necessary  for  him  to  suffer,  he  felt  that  he  could  endure 
without  complaint  and  without  cowardice,  providing 
that  he  was  self-satisfied  of  the  justice  of  his  own  cause. 
What  he  could  not  endure  was,  that  he  should  be  ac- 
cused by  others,  and  not  acquitted  by  himself.  Doubt- 
ing, as  he  had  begun  to  doubt,  the  justice  of  his  own 
position  in  the  hospital,  he  knew  that  his  own  self-con- 
fidence would  not  be  restored  because  Mr.  Bold  had 
been  in  error  as  to  some  legal  form ;  nor  could  he  be 
satisfied  to  escape,  because,  through  some  legal  fiction, 
he  who  received  the  greatest  benefit  from  the  hospital 
might  be  considered  only  as  one  of  its  servants. 

The  archdeacon's  speech  had  silenced  him, — stu- 
pefied him, — annihilated  him;  anything  but  satisfied 
him.  With  the  bishop  it  fared  not  much  better.  He 
did  not  discern  clearly  how  things  were,  but  he  saw 
enough  to  know  that  a  battle  was  to  be  prepared  for  ; 
a  battle  that  would  destroy  his  few  remaining  comforts, 
and  bring  him  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 


THE  CONFERENCE. 


The  warden  still  sat,  and  still  looked  at  the  arch- 
deacon, till  his  thoughts  fixed  themselves  wholly  on  the 
means  of  escape  from  his  present  position,  and  he  felt 
hke  a  bird  fascinated  by  gazing  on  a  snake. 

"  I  hope  you  agree  with  me,"  said  the  archdeacon  at 
last,  breaking  the  dread  silence ;  "  my  lord,  I  hope  you 
agree  with  me."  Oh  what  a  sigh  the  bishop  gave! 
"  My  lord,  I  hope  you  agree  with  me,"  again  repeated 
the  merciless  tyrant. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  groaned  the  poor  old  man, 
slowly. 

"And  you,  warden?  " 

Mr.  Harding  was  now  stirred  to  action.  He  must 
speak  and  move,  so  he  got  up  and  took  one  timi  be- 
fore he  answered. 

"  Do  not  press  me  for  an  answer  just  at  present ;  I 
will  do  nothing  lightly  in  the  matter,  and  of  whatever 
I  do  I  will  give  you  and  the  bishop  notice."  And  so 
without  another  word  he  took  his  leave,  escaping 
quickly  through  the  palace  hall,  and  down  the  lofty 
steps ;  nor  did  he  breathe  freely  till  he  found  himself 
alone  under  the  huge  elms  of  the  silent  close.  Here 
he  walked  long  and  slowly,  thinking  on  his  case  with 
a  troubled  air,  and  trying  in  vain  to  confute  the  arch- 
deacon's argument.  He  then  went  home,  resolved  to 
bear  it  all, — ignominy,  suspense,  disgrace,  self-doubt, 
and  heart-burning, — and  to  do  as  those  would  have 
him,  who  he  still  believed  were  most  fit  and  most  able 
to  counsel  him  aright. 


8 


CHAPTER  X. 


TRIBULATION. 

Mr.  Harding  was  a  sadder  man  than  he  had  ever 
yet  been  when  he  returned  to  his  own  house.  He  had 
been  wretched  enough  on  that  well-remembered  morn- 
ing when  he  was  forced  to  expose  before  his  son-in-law 
the  publisher's  account  for  ushering  into  the  world  his 
dear  book  of  sacred  music ;  when  after  making  such 
payments  as  he  could  do  unassisted,  he  found  that 
he  was  a  debtor  of  more  than  three  hundred  pounds ; 
but  his  sufferings  then  were  as  nothing  to  his  present 
misery ; — then  he  had  done  wrong,  and  he  knew  it,  and 
was  able  to  resolve  that  he  would  not  sin  in  like  man- 
ner again ;  but  now  he  could  make  no  resolution,  and 
comfort  himself  by  no  promises  of  firmness.  He  had 
been  forced  to  think  that "  his  lot  had  placed  him  in  a 
false  position,  and  he  was  about  to  maintain  that  po- 
sition against  the  opinion  of  the  world  and  against  his 
own  convictions. 

He  had  read  with  pity,  amounting  almost  to  horror, 
the  strictures  which  had  appeared  from  time  to  time 
against  the  Earl  of  Guildford  as  master  of  St.  Cross, 
and  the  invectives  that  had  been  heaped  on  rich  dio- 
cesan dignitaries  and  overgrown  sinecure  pluralists. 
In  judging  of  them,  he  judged  leniently ;  the  old  bias 
of  his  profession  had  taught  him  to  think  that  they 


TRIBULATION. 


were  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  and  that  the 
animosity  with  which  they  had  been  pursued  was  ven- 
omous and  unjust ;  but  he  had  not  the  less  regarded 
their  plight  as  most  miserable.  His  hair  had  stood  on 
end  and  his  flesh  had  crept  as  he  read  the  things  which 
had  been  written;  he  had  wondered  how  men  could 
live  under  such  a  load  of  disgrace ;  how  they  could 
face  their  fellow-creatures  while  their  names  were  ban- 
died about  so  injuriously  and  so  publicly.  Now  this 
lot  was  to  be  his.  He,  that  shy  retiring  man,  who  had 
so  comforted  himself  in  the  hidden  obscurity  of  his  lot, 
who  had  so  enjoyed  the  unassuming  warmth  of  his  own 
httle  corner,  he  was  now  to  be  dragged  forth  into  the 
glaring  day,  gibbeted  before  ferocious  multitudes.  H  e 
entered  his  own  house  a  crestfallen,  humiliated  man, 
without  a  hope  of  overcoming  the  wretchedness  which 
affected  him. 

He  wandered  into  the  drawing-room  where  was  his 
daughter ;  but  he  could  not  speak  to  her  now,  so  he 
left  it,  and  went  into  the  book-room.  He  was  not 
quick  enough  to  escape  Eleanor's  glance,  or  to  prevent 
her  from  seeing  that  he  was  disturbed ;  and  in  a  little 
while  she  followed  him.  She  found  him  seated  in  his 
accustomed  chair  with  no  book  open  before  him,  no 
pen  ready  in  his  hand,  no  ill-shapen  notes  of  blotted 
music  lying  before  him  as  was  usual,  none  of  those 
hospital  accounts  with  which  he  was  so  precise  and  yet 
so  unmethodical.  He  was  doing  nothing,  thinking  of 
nothing,  looking  at  nothing ;  he  was  merely  suffering. 

"  Leave  me,  Eleanor,  my  dear,"  he  said ;  "  leave  me, 
my  darling,  for  a  few  minutes,  for  I  am  busy." 

Eleanor  saw  well  how  it  was,  but  she  did  leave  him, 
and  glided  silently  back  to  her  drawing-room.  When 


ii6 


THE  WARDEN. 


he  had  sat  awhile,  thus  alone  and  unoccupied,  he  got 
up  to  walk  again ;  he  could  make  more  of  his  thoughts 
walking  than  sitting,  and  was  creeping  out  into  his 
garden,  when  he  met  Bunce  on  the  threshold. 

"  Well,  Bunce,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  that  for  him  was 
sharp,  "what  is  it?  do  you  want  me?  " 

"  I  was  only  coming  to  ask  after  your  reverence,"  said 
the  old  bedesman,  touching  his  hat; — "and  to  inquire 
about  the  news  from  London,"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

The  warden  winced,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  fore- 
head and  felt  bewildered. 

"Attorney  Finney  has  been  there  this  morning," 
continued  Bunce,  "  and  by  his  looks  I  guess  he  is  not 
so  well  pleased  as  he  once  was,  and  it  has  got  abroad 
somehow  that  the  archdeacon  has  had  down  great 
news  from  London,  and  Handy  and  Moody  are  both 
as  black  as  devils.  And  I  hope,"  said  the  man,  trying 
to  assume  a  cheery  tone,  "  that  things  are  looking  up, 
and  that  there  '11  be  an  end  soon  to  all  this  stuff  which 
bothers  your  reverence  so  sorely." 

"  Well,  I  wish  there  may  be,  Bunce." 

"But  about  the  news,  your  reverence?"  said  the 
old  man,  almost  whispering.  Mr.  Harding  walked  on, 
and  shook  his  head  impatiently.  Poor  Bunce  little 
knew  how  he  was  tormenting  his  patron.  "  If  there 
was  anything  to  cheer  you,  I  should  be  so  glad  to 
know  it,"  said  he,  with  at  one  of  affection  which  the 
warden  in  all  his  misery  could  not  resist. 

He  stopped,  and  took  both  the  old  man's  hands  in 
his.  "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  my  dear  old  friend,  there 
is  nothing ;  there  is  no  news  to  cheer  me.  God's  will 
be  done."  And  two  small  hot  tears  broke  away  from 
his  eyes  and  stole  down  his  furrowed  cheeks. 


TRIBULATION. 


117 


"  Then  God's  will  be  done,"  said  the  other  solemnly ; 
"but  they  told  me  that  there  was  good  news  from 
London,  and  I  came  to  wish  your  reverence  joy ;  but 
God's  will  be  done."  The  warden  again  walked  on, 
and  the  bedesman  looking  wistfully  after  him  and  re- 
ceiving no  encouragement  to  follow  returned  sadly  to 
his  own  abode. 

For  a  couple  of  hours  the  warden  remained  thus  in 
the  garden,  now  walking,  now  standing  motionless  on 
the  turf,  and  then,  as  his  legs  got  weary,  sitting  uncon- 
sciously on  the  garden  seats,  and  then  walking  again. 
Eleanor,  hidden  behind  the  muslin  curtains  of  the  win- 
dow, watched  him  through  the  trees  as  he  came  in 
sight,  and  then  again  was  concealed  by  the  turnings  of 
the  walk;  and  thus  the  time  passed  away  till  five, 
when  the  warden  crept  back  to  the  house  and  pre- 
pared for  dinner. 

It  was  but  a  sorry  meal.  The  demure  parlour-maid, 
as  she  handed  the  dishes  and  changed  the  plates,  saw 
that  all  was  not  right,  and  was  more  demure  than  ever. 
Neither  father  nor  daughter  could  eat,  and  the  hateful 
food  was  soon  cleared  away,  and  the  bottle  of  port 
placed  upon  the  table. 

"Would  you  like  Bunce  to  come  in,  papa?"  said 
Eleanor,  thinking  that  the  company  of  the  old  man 
might  lighten  his  sorrow. 

"  No,  my  dear,  thank  you,  not  to-day ;  but  are  not 
you  going  out,  Eleanor,  this  lovely  afternoon?  Don't 
stay  in  for  me,  my  dear." 

"  I  thought  you  seemed  so  sad,  papa." 

"  Sad,"  said  he,  irritated ;  "  well,  people  must  all 
have  their  share  of  sadness  here ;  I  am  not  more  ex- 
empt than  another.    But  kiss  me,  dearest,  and  go  now ; 


ii8 


THE  WARDEN. 


I  will,  if  possible,  be  more  sociable  when  you  return." 

And  Eleanor  was  again  banished  from  her  father's 
sorrow.  Ah!  her  desire  now  was  not  to  find  him 
happy,  but  to  be  allowed  to  share  his  sorrows ;  not  to 
force  him  to  be  sociable,  but  to  persuade  him  to  be 
trustful. 

She  put  on  her  bonnet  as  desired,  and  went  up  to 
Mary  Bold ;  this  was  her  daily  haunt,  for  John  Bold 
was  up  in  London  among  lawyers  and  church  reform- 
ers, diving  deep  into  other  questions  than  that  of  the 
wardenship  of  Barchester;  supplying  information  to 
one  member  of  parliament  and  dining  with  another ; 
subscribing  to  funds  for  the  abolition  of  clerical  in- 
comes, and  seconding  at  that  great  national  meeting  at 
the  Crown  and  Anchor  a  resolution  to  the  effect,  that 
no  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  be  he  who 
he  might,  should  have  more  than  a  thousand  a  year, 
and  none  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty.  His  speech 
on  this  occasion  was  short,  for  fifteen  had  to  speak, 
and  the  room  was  hired  for  two  hours  only,  at  the  ex- 
piration of  which  the  Quakers  and  Mr.  Cobden  were 
to  make  use  of  it  for  an  appeal  to  the  public  in  aid  of 
the  Emperor  of  Russia ;  but  it  was  sharp  and  effect- 
ive ;  at  least  he  was  told  so  by  a  companion  with  whom 
he  now  lived  much,  and  on  whom  he  greatly  depended, 
— one  Tom  Towers,  a  very  leading  genius,  and  sup- 
posed to  have  high  employment  on  the  staff  of  the 
Jupiter. 

So  Eleanor,  as  was  now  her  wont,  went  up  to  Mary 
Bold,  and  Mary  listened  kindly,while  the  daughter  spoke 
much  of  her  father,  and,  perhaps  kinder  still,  found  a 
listener  in  Eleanor,  while  she  spoke  about  her  brother. 
In  the  meantime  the  v/arden  sat  alone,  leaning  on  the 


TRIBULATION. 


119 


arm  of  his  chair ;  he  had  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine, 
but  had  done  so  merely  from  habit,  for  he  left  it  un- 
touched ;  there  he  sat  gazing  at  the  open  window,  and 
thinking,  if  he  can  be  said  to  have  thought,  of  the  hap- 
piness of  his  past  life.  All  manner  of  past  dehghts 
came  before  his  mind,  which  at  the  time  he  had  enjoyed 
without  considering  them ;  his  easy  days,  his  absence 
of  all  kind  of  hard  work,  his  pleasant  shady  home, 
those  twelve  old  neighbours  whose  welfare  till  now  had 
been  the  source  of  so  much  pleasant  care,  the  excel- 
lence of  his  children,  the  friendship  of  the  dear  old 
bishop,  the  solemn  grandeur  of  those  vaulted  aisles, 
through  which  he  loved  to  hear  his  own  voice  pealing ; 
and  then  that  friend  of  friends,  that  choice  ally  that 
had  never  deserted  him,  that  eloquent  companion  that 
would  always,  when  asked,  discourse  such  pleasant 
music,  that  violoncello  of  his !  Ah,  how  happy  he  had 
been !  But  it  was  over  now ;  his  easy  days  and  ab- 
sence of  work  had  been  the  crime  which  brought  on 
him  his  tribulation ;  his  shady  home  was  pleasant  no 
longer ;  may  be  it  was  no  longer  his ;  the  old  neigh- 
bours, whose  welfare  had  been  so  desired  by  him,  were 
his  enemies ;  his  daughter  was  as  wretched  as  himself ; 
and  even  the  bishop  was  made  miserable  by  his  posi- 
tion. He  could  never  again  lift  up  his  voice  boldly  as 
he  had  hitherto  done  among  his  brethren,  for  he  felt 
that  he  was  disgraced ;  and  he  feared  even  to  touch 
his  bow,  for  he  knew  how  grievous  a  sound  of  wailing, 
how  piteous  a  lamentation,  it  would  produce. 

He  was  still  sitting  in  the  same  chair  and  the  same 
posture,  having  hardly  moved  a  hmb,  for  two  hours, 
when  Eleanor  came  back  to  tea,  and  succeeded  in 
bringing  him  with  her  into  the  drawing-room. 


120 


THE  WARDEN. 


The  tea  seemed  as  comfortless  as  the  dinner,  though 
the  warden,  who  had  hitherto  eaten  nothing  all  day, 
devoured  the  plateful  of  bread  and  butter,  unconscious 
of  what  he  was  doing. 

Eleanor  had  made  up  her  mind  to  force  him  to  talk 
to  her,  but  she  hardly  knew  how  to  commence.  She 
must  wait  till  the  urn  was  gone,  till  the  servant  would 
no  longer  be  coming  in  and  out. 

At  last  everything  was  quiet,  and  the  drawing-room 
door  was  permanently  closed.  Then  Eleanor,  getting 
up  and  going  round  to  her  father,  put  her  arm  round 
his  neck,  and  said,  "  Papa,  won't  you  tell  me  what  it 
is?" 

"  What  what  is,  my  dear?  " 

"  This  new  sorrow  that  torments  you ;  I  know  you 
are  unhappy,  papa." 

"New  sorrow!  it 's  no  new  sorrow,  my  dear;  we 
have  all  our  cares  sometimes;"  and  he  tried  to  smile, 
but  it  was  a  ghastly  failure ;  "  but  I  should  n't  be  so 
dull  a  companion ;  come,  we  '11  have  some  music." 

"  No,  papa,  not  to-night ;  it  would  only  trouble  you 
to-night ;"  and  she  sat  upon  his  knee,  as  she  sometimes 
would  in  their  gayest  moods,  and  with  her  arm  round 
his  neck,  she  said,  "  Papa,  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you 
talk  to  me.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  much  good  it 
would  do  to  you,  to  tell  me  of  it  all." 

The  father  kissed  his  daughter,  and  pressed  her  to 
his  heart;  but  still  he  said  nothing.  It  was  so  hard 
to  him  to  speak  of  his  own  sorrows ;  he  was  so  shy  a 
man  even  with  his  own  child! 

"  Oh,  papa,  do  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  know  it  is 
about  the  hospital,  and  what  they  are  doing  up  in  Lon- 
don, and  what  that  cruel  newspaper  has  said ;  but  if 


TRIBULATION. 


121 


there  be  such  cause  for  sorrow,  let  us  be  sorrowful  to- 
gether ;  we  are  all  in  all  to  each  other  now.  Dear, 
dear  papa,  do  speak  to  me." 

Mr.  Harding  could  not  well  speak  now,  for  the  warm 
tears  were  running  down  his  cheeks  like  rain  in  May, 
but  he  held  his  child  close  to  his  heart,  and  squeezed 
her  hand  as  a  lover  might,  and  she  kissed  his  forehead 
and  his  wet  cheeks,  and  lay  upon  his  bosom,  and  com- 
forted him  as  a  woman  only  can  do. 

"  My  own  child,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  tears  would 
let  him  speak,  "  my  own,  own  child,  why  should  you 
too  be  unhappy  before  it  is  necessary?  It  may  come 
to  that,  that  we  must  leave  this  place,  but  till  that  time 
comes,  why  should  your  young  days  be  clouded?  " 

"  And  is  that  all,  papa?  If  that  be  all,  let  us  leave 
it,  and  have  light  hearts  elsewhere.  If  that  be  all,  let 
us  go.  Oh,  papa,  you  and  I  could  be  happy  if  we  had 
only  bread  to  eat,  so  long  as  our  hearts  were  light." 

And  Eleanor's  face  was  lighted  up  with  enthusiasm 
as  she  told  her  father  how  he  might  banish  all  his  care ; 
and  a  gleam  of  joy  shot  across  his  brow  as  this  idea  of 
escape  again  presented  itself,  and  he  again  fancied  for 
a  moment  that  he  could  spurn  away  from  him  the  in- 
come which  the  world  envied  him ;  that  he  could  give 
the  lie  to  that  wielder  of  the  tomahawk  who  had  dared 
to  write  such  things  of  him  in  the  Jupiter ;  that  he  could 
leave  Sir  Abraham,  and  the  archdeacon,  and  Bold, 
and  the  rest  of  them  with  their  lawsuit  among  them, 
and  wipe  his  hands  altogether  of  so  sorrow-stirring  a 
concern.  Ah,  what  happiness  might  there  be  in  the 
distance,  with  Eleanor  and  him  in  some  small  cottage, 
and  nothing  left  of  their  former  grandeur  but  their 
music!    Yes,  they  would  walk  forth  with  their  music 


122 


THE  WARDEN. 


books,  and  their  instruments,  and  shaking  the  dust  from 
off  their  feet  as  they  went,  leave  the  ungrateful  place. 
Never  did  a  poor  clergyman  sigh  for  a  warm  benefice 
more  anxiously  than  our  warden  did  now  to  be  rid  of 
his. 

"  Give  it  up,  papa,"  she  said  again,  jumping  from 
his  knees  and  standing  on  her  feet  before  him,  looking 
boldly  into  his  face ;  "  give  it  up,  papa." 

Oh,  it  was  sad  to  see  how  that  momentary  gleam  of 
joy  passed  away ;  how  the  look  of  hope  was  dispersed 
from  that  sorrowful  face,  as  the  remembrance  of  the 
archdeacon  came  back  upon  our  poor  warden,  and  he 
reflected  that  he  could  not  stir  from  his  now  hated  post. 
He  was  as  a  man  bound  with  iron,  fettered  with  ada- 
mant. He  was  in  no  respect  a  free  agent ;  he  had  no 
choice.  "  Give  it  up !  "  oh  if  he  only  could !  What  an 
easy  way  that  were  out  of  all  his  troubles! 

"  Papa,  don't  doubt  about  it,"  she  continued,  think- 
ing that  his  hesitation  arose  from  his  unwillingness  to 
abandon  so  comfortable  a  home ;  "  is  it  on  my  account 
that  you  would  stay  here?  Do  you  think  that  I  can- 
not be  happy  without  a  pony-carriage  and  a  fine  draw- 
ing-room? Papa,  I  never  can  be  happy  here,  as  long 
as  there  is  a  question  as  to  your  honour  in  staying  here ; 
but  I  could  be  gay  as  the  day  is  long  in  the  smallest 
tiny  little  cottage,  if  I  could  see  you  come  in  and  go 
out  with  a  light  heart.  Oh!  papa,  your  face  tells  so 
much !  Though  you  won't  speak  to  me  with  your  voice, 
I  know  how  it  is  with  you  every  time  I  look  at  you." 

How  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart  again  with  almost 
a  spasmodic  pressure!  How  he  kissed  her  as  the  tears 
fell  like  rain  from  his  old  eyes!  How  he  blessed  her, 
and  called  her  by  a  hundred  soft  sweet  names  which 


TRIBULATION. 


123 


now  came  new  to  his  lips!  How  he  chid  himself  for 
ever  having  been  unhappy  with  such  a  treasure  in  his 
house,  such  a  jewel  on  his  bosom,  with  so  sweet  a 
flower  in  the  choice  garden  of  his  heart !  And  then  the 
flood-gates  of  his  tongue  were  loosed,  and,  at  length, 
with  unsparing  detail  of  circumstances,  he  told  her  all 
that  he  wished,  and  all  that  he  could  not  do.  He  re- 
peated those  arguments  of  the  archdeacon,  not  agree- 
ing in  their  truth,  but  explaining  his  inability  to  escape 
from  them ; — how  it  had  been  declared  to  him  that  he 
was  bound  to  remain  where  he  was  by  the  interests  of 
his  order,  by  gratitude  to  the  bishop,  by  the  wishes  of 
his  friends,  by  a  sense  of  duty,  which,  though  he  could 
not  understand  it,  he  was  fain  to  acknowledge.  He 
told  her  how  he  had  been  accused  of  cowardice,  and 
though  he  was  not  a  man  to  make  much  of  such  a 
charge  before  the  world,  now  in  the  full  candour  of  his 
heart,  he  explained  to  her  that  such  an  accusation  was 
grievous  to  him;  that  he  did  think  it  would  be  un- 
manly to  desert  his  post,  merely  to  escape  his  pres- 
ent sufferings,  and  that,  therefore,  he  must  bear  as  best 
he  might  the  misery  which  was  prepared  for  him. 

And  did  she  find  these  details  tedious?  Oh,  no; 
she  encouraged  him  to  dilate  on  every  feeling  he  ex- 
pressed, till  he  laid  bare  the  inmost  comers  of  his  heart 
to  her.  They  spoke  together  of  the  archdeacon,  as 
two  children  might  of  a  stern,  unpopular,  but  still  re- 
spected schoolmaster,  and  of  the  bishop  as  a  parent 
kind  as  kind  could  be,  but  powerless  against  an  omnip- 
otent pedagogue. 

And  then,  when  they  had  discussed  all  this,  when 
the  father  had  told  all  to  the  child,  she  could  not  be 
less  confiding  than  he  had  been ;  and  as  John  Bold's 


124 


THE  WARDEN. 


name  was  mentioned  between  them,  she  owned  how 
well  she  had  learned  to  love  him, — had  loved  him 
once,"  she  said,  "  but  she  would  not,  could  not,  do  so 
now.  No ;  even  had  her  troth  been  plighted  to  him, 
she  would  have  taken  it  back  again; — had  she  sworn 
to  love  him  as  his  wife,  she  would  have  discarded  him, 
and  not  felt  herself  forsworn  when  he  proved  himself 
the  enemy  of  her  father." 

But  the  warden  declared  that  Bold  was  no  enemy  of 
his,  and  encouraged  her  love ;  and  gently  rebuked,  as 
he  kissed  her,  the  stern  resolve  she  had  made  to  cast 
him  off;  and  then  he  spoke  to  her  of  happier  days 
when  their  trials  would  all  be  over ;  and  declared  that 
her  young  heart  should  not  be  torn  asunder  to  please 
either  priest  or  prelate,  dean  or  archdeacon.  No,  not 
if  all  Oxford  were  to  convocate  together,  and  agree  as 
to  the  necessity  of  the  sacrifice! 

And  so  they  greatly  comforted  each  other !  In  what 
sorrow  will  not  such  mutual  confidence  give  consola- 
tion !  — and  with  a  last  expression  of  tender  love  they 
parted,  and  went  comparatively  happy  to  their  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


IPHIGENIA. 

When  Eleanor  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  that  night, 
her  mind  was  anxiously  intent  on  some  plan  by  which 
she  might  extricate  her  father  from  his  misery ;  and,  in 
her  warm-hearted  enthusiasm,  self-sacrifice  was  decided 
on  as  the  means  to  be  adopted.  Was  not  so  good  an 
Agamemnon  worthy  of  an  Iphigenia?  She  would  her- 
self personally  implore  John  Bold  to  desist  from  his 
undertaking;  she  would  explain  to  him  her  father's 
sorrows,  the  cruel  misery  of  his  position ;  she  would 
tell  him  how  her  father  would  die  if  he  were  thus 
dragged  before  the  public  and  exposed  to  such  un- 
merited ignominy  ;  she  would  appeal  to  his  old  friend- 
ship, to  his  generosity,  to  his  manliness,  to  his  mercy ; 
if  need  were,  she  would  kneel  to  him  for  the  favour  she 
would  ask  ; — but  before  she  did  this,  the  idea  of  love 
must  be  banished.  There  must  be  no  bargain  in  the 
matter.  To  his  mercy,  to  his  generosity,  she  could  ap- 
peal ;  but  as  a  pure  maiden,  hitherto  even  unsolicited, 
she  could  not  appeal  to  his  love,  nor  under  such  cir- 
cumstances could  she  allow  him  to  do  so.  Of  course 
when  so  provoked  he  would  declare  his  passion ;  that 
was  to  be  expected ;  there  had  been  enough  between 
them  to  make  such  a  fact  sure ;  but  it  was  equally  cer- 
tain that  he  must  be  rejected.    She  could  not  be  un- 


126 


THE  WARDEN. 


derstood  as  saying,  Make  my  father  free  and  I  am  the 
reward.  There  would  be  no  sacrifice  in  that ; — not  so 
had  Jephthah's  daughter  saved  her  father; — not  so 
could  she  show  to  that  kindest,  dearest  of  parents  how 
much  she  was  able  to  bear  for  his  good.  No ;  to  one 
resolve  must  her  whole  soul  be  bound ;  and  so  resolv- 
ing, she  felt  that  she  could  make  her  great  request  to 
Bold  with  as  much  self-assured  confidence  as  she  could 
have  done  to  his  grandfather. 

And  now  I  own  I  have  fears  for  my  heroine;  not 
as  to  the  upshot  of  her  mission, — not  in  the  least  as  to 
that ;  as  to  the  full  success  of  her  generous  scheme, 
and  the  ultimate  result  of  such  a  project,  no  one  con- 
versant with  human  nature  and  novels  can  have  a 
doubt ;  but  as  to  the  amount  of  sympathy  she  may  re- 
ceive from  those  of  her  own  sex.  Girls  below  twenty 
and  old  ladies  above  sixty  will  do  her  justice ;  for  in 
the  female  heart  the  soft  springs  of  sweet  romance  re- 
open after  many  years,  and  again  gush  out  with  waters 
pure  as  in  earlier  days,  and  greatly  refresh  the  path  that 
leads  downwards  to  the  grave.  But  I  fear  that  the 
majority  of  those  between  these  two  eras  will  not  ap- 
prove of  Eleanor's  plan.  I  fear  that  unmarried  ladies 
of  thirty-five  will  declare  that  there  can  be  no  probabil- 
ity of  so  absurd  a  project  being  carried  through ;  that 
young  women  on  their  knees  before  their  lovers  are 
sure  to  get  kissed,  and  that  they  would  not  put  them- 
selves in  such  a  position  did  they  not  expect  it ;  that 
Eleanor  is  going  to  Bold,  only  because  circumstances 
prevent  Bold  from  coming  to  her; — that  she  is  cer- 
tainly a  little  fool,  or  a  little  schemer,  but  that  in  all 
probability  she  is  thinking  a  good  deal  more  about  her- 
self than  her  father. 


IPHIGENIA. 


127 


Dear  ladies,  you  are  right  as  to  your  appreciation  of 
the  circumstances,  but  very  wrong  as  to  Miss  Harding's 
character.  Miss  Harding  was  much  younger  than  you 
are,  and  could  not,  therefore,  know,  as  j^ou  may  do,  to 
what  dangers  such  an  encounter  might  expose  her. 
She  may  get  kissed ;  I  think  it  very  probable  that  she 
will ;  but  I  give  my  solemn  word  and  positive  assur- 
ance that  the  remotest  idea  of  such  a  catastrophe  never 
occurred  to  her  as  she  made  the  great  resolve  now 
alluded  to. 

And  then  she  slept;  and  then  she  rose  refreshed, 
and  met  her  father  with  her  kindest  embrace  and  most 
loving  smiles ;  and  on  the  whole  their  breakfast  was 
by  no  means  so  triste  as  had  been  their  dinner  the  day 
before ;  and  then,  making  some  excuse  to  her  father 
for  so  soon  leaving  him,  she  started  on  the  commence- 
ment of  her  operations. 

She  knew  that  John  Bold  was  in  London,  and  that, 
therefore,  the  scene  itself  could  not  be  enacted  to-day ; 
but  she  also  knew  that  he  was  soon  to  be  home,  proba- 
bly on  the  next  day,  and  it  was  necessary  that  some 
little  plan  for  meeting  him  should  be  concerted  with 
his  sister  Mary.  When  she  got  up  to  the  house,  she 
went  as  usual  into  the  morning  sitting-room,  and  was 
startled  by  perceiving,  by  a  stick,  a  great  coat,  and 
sundry  parcels  which  were  lying  about,  that  Bold  must 
already  have  returned. 

''John  has  come  back  so  suddenly,"  said  Mary, 
coming  into  the  room;  "he  has  been  travelling  all 
night." 

"  Then  I  '11  come  up  again  some  other  time,"  said 
Eleanor,  about  to  beat  a  retreat  in  her  sudden  dis- 
may. 


128 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  He 's  out  now,  and  will  be  for  the  next  two  hours," 
said  the  other;  "he  's  with  that  horrid  Finney;  he 
only  came  to  see  him,  and  he  returns  by  the  mail  train 
to-night." 

Returns  by  the  mail  train  to-night,  thought  Eleanor 
to  herself,  as  she  strove  to  screw  up  her  courage ; — 
away  again  to-night !  Then  it  must  be  now  or  never ; 
and  she  again  sat  down,  having  risen  to  go. 

She  wished  the  ordeal  could  have  been  postponed. 
She  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  to  do  the  deed,  but 
she  had  not  made  up  her  mind  to  do  it  this  very  day ; 
and  now  she  felt  ill  at  ease,  astray,  and  in  difficulty. 

"  Mary,"  she  began,  "  I  must  see  your  brother  before 
he  goes  back." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,"  said  the  other ;  "  I  know  he  '11 
be  dehghted  to  see  you ; "  and  she  tried  to  treat  it  as 
a  matter  of  course.  But  she  was  not  the  less  sur- 
prised ;  for  Mary  and  Eleanor  had  daily  talked  over 
John  Bold  and  his  conduct,  and  his  love,  and  Mary 
would  insist  on  calling  Eleanor  her  sister,  and  would 
scold  her  for  not  calling  Bold  by  his  Christian  name ; 
and  Eleanor  would  half  confess  her  love,  but  like  a 
modest  maiden  would  protest  against  such  famiHarities 
even  with  the  name  of  her  lover.  And  so  they  talked 
hour  after  hour,  and  Mary  Bold,  who  was  much  the 
elder,  looked  forward  with  happy  confidence  to  the 
day  when  Eleanor  would  not  be  ashamed  to  call  her 
her  sister.  She  was,  however,  fully  sure  that  just  at 
present  Eleanor  would  be  much  more  likely  to  avoid 
her  brother  than  to  seek  him. 

"  Mary,  I  must  see  your  brother,  now,  to-day,  and 
beg  from  him  a  great  favour;"  and  she  spoke  with  a 
solemn  air,  not  at  all  usual  to  her ;  and  then  she  went 


IPHIGENIA. 


129 


on,  and  opened  to  her  friend  all  her  plan,  her  well- 
weighed  scheme  for  saving  her  father  from  a  sorrow 
which  would,  she  said,  if  it  lasted,  bring  him  to  his 
grave.  "  But  Mary,"  she  continued,  "  you  must  now, 
you  know,  cease  any  joking  about  me  and  Mr.  Bold. 
You  must  now  say  no  more  about  that.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  beg  this  favour  from  your  brother,  but 
when  I  have  done  so,  there  can  never  be  anything 
further  between  us ! "  And  this  she  said  with  a  staid 
and  solemn  air,  quite  worthy  of  Jephthah's  daughter  or 
of  Iphigenia  either. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  Mary  Bold  did  not  follow  the 
argument.  That  Eleanor  Harding  should  appeal,  on 
behalf  of  her  father,  to  Bold's  better  feelings,  seemed 
to  Mary  quite  natural ;  it  seemed  quite  natural  that  he 
should  relent,  overcome  by  such  filial  tears,  and  by  so 
much  beauty ;  but,  to  her  thinking,  it  was  at  any  rate 
equally  natural  that,  having  relented,  John  should  put 
his  arm  round  his  mistress's  waist,  and  say,  '  Now 
having  settled  that,  let  us  be  man  and  wife,  and  all 
will  end  happily!'  Why  his  good  nature  should  not 
be  rewarded,  when  such  rev/ard  would  operate  to  the 
disadvantage  of  none,  Mary,  who  had  more  sense 
than  romance,  could  not  understand;  and  she  said 
as  much. 

Eleanor,  however,  was  firm,  and  made  quite  an  elo- 
quent speech  to  support  her  own  view  of  the  question. 
She  could  not  condescend,  she  said,  to  ask  such  a 
favour  on  any  other  terms  than  those  proposed.  Mary 
might,  perhaps,  think  her  high-flown,  but  she  had  her 
own  ideas,  and  she  could  not  submit  to  sacrifice  her 
self-respect. 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  love  him ; — don't  you?  "  pleaded 
9 


I30 


THE  WARDEN. 


Mary ;  "  and  I  am  sure  he  loves  you  better  than  any- 
thing in  the  world." 

Eleanor  was  going  to  make  another  speech,  but  a 
tear  came  to  each  eye,  and  she  could  not ;  so  she  pre- 
tended to  blow  her  nose,  and  walked  to  the  window, 
and  made  a  little  inward  call  on  her  own  courage,  and 
finding  herself  somewhat  sustained,  said  sententiously, 
— "  Mary,  this  is  nonsense." 

"  But  you  do  love  him,"  said  Mary,  who  had  fol- 
lowed her  friend  to  the  window,  and  now  spoke  with 
her  arms  close  wound  round  the  other's  waist.  "  You 
do  love  him  with  all  your  heart.  You  know  you  do ; 
I  defy  you  to  deny  it." 

"  I — "  commenced  Eleanor,  turning  sharply  round 
to  refute  the  charge ;  but  the  intended  falsehood  stuck 
in  her  throat,  and  never  came  to  utterance.  She  could 
not  deny  her  love,  so  she  took  plentifully  to  tears,  and 
leant  upon  her  friend's  bosom  and  sobbed  there,  and 
protested  that,  love  or  no  love,  it  would  make  no  dif- 
ference in  her  resolve,  and  called  Mary,  a  thousand 
times,  the  most  cruel  of  girls,  and  swore  her  to  secrecy 
by  a  hundred  oaths,  and  ended  by  declaring  that  the 
girl  who  could  betray  her  friend's  love,  even  to  a 
brother,  would  be  as  black  a  traitor  as  a  soldier  in  a 
garrison  who  should  open  the  city  gates  to  the  enemy. 
While  they  were  yet  discussing  the  matter.  Bold  re- 
turned, and  Eleanor  was  forced  into  sudden  action. 
She  had  either  to  accomplish  or  abandon  her  plan; 
and  having  shpped  into  her  friend's  bedroom,  as  the 
gentleman  closed  the  hall  door,  she  washed  the  marks 
of  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  resolved  within  herself  to 
go  through  with  it.  "  Tell  him  I  am  here,"  said  she, 
"  and  coming  in ;  and  mind,  whatever  you  do,  don't 


IPHIGENIA. 


leave  us."  So  Mary  informed  her  brother,  with  a 
somewhat  sombre  air,  that  Miss  Harding  was  in  the 
next  room,  and  was  coming  to  speak  to  him. 

Eleanor  was  certainly  thinking  more  of  her  father 
than  herself,  as  she  arranged  her  hair  before  the  glass, 
and  removed  the  traces  of  sorrow  from  her  face ;  and 
yet  I  should  be  untrue  if  I  said  that  she  was  not  anx- 
ious to  appear  well  before  her  lover.  Why  else  was 
she  so  sedulous  with  that  stubborn  curl  that  would 
rebel  against  her  hand,  and  smooth  so  eagerly  her 
ruffled  ribands?  Why  else  did  she  damp  her  eyes  to 
dispel  the  redness,  and  bite  her  pretty  lips  to  bring 
back  the  colour?  Of  course  she  was  anxious  to  look 
her  best,  for  she  v/as  but  a  mortal  angel  after  all.  But 
had  she  been  immortal,  had  she  flitted  back  to  the  sit- 
ting-room on  a  cherub's  wings,  she  could  not  have  had 
a  more  faithful  heart,  or  a  truer  wish  to  save  her  father 
at  any  cost  to  herself. 

John  Bold  had  not  met  her  since  the  day  when  she 
left  him  in  dudgeon  in  the  cathedral  close.  Since  that 
his  whole  time  had  been  occupied  in  promoting  the 
cause  against  her  father, — and  not  unsuccessfully.  He 
had  often  thought  of  her,  and  turned  over  in  his  mind 
a  hundred  schemes  for  showing  her  how  disinterested 
was  his  love.  He  would  write  to  her  and  beseech  her 
not  to  allow  the  performance  of  a  public  duty  to  injure 
him  in  her  estimation  ;  he  would  write  to  Mr.  Harding, 
explain  all  his  views,  and  boldly  claim  the  warden's 
daughter,  urging  that  the  untoward  circumstances  be- 
tween them  need  be  no  bar  to  their  ancient  friendship, 
or  to  a  closer  tie  ;  he  would  throw  himself  on  his  knees 
before  his  mistress;  he  would  wait  and  marry  the 
daughter  when  the  father  had  lost  his  home  and  his  in- 


132 


THE  WARDEN. 


come ;  he  would  give  up  the  lawsuit  and  go  to  Austra- 
lia, with  her  of  course,  leaving  the  Jupiter  and  Mr. 
Finney  to  complete  the  case  between  them.  Some- 
times as  he  woke  in  the  morning  fevered  and  impatient, 
he  would  blow  out  his  brains  and  have  done  with  all 
his  cares  ; — but  this  idea  was  generally  consequent  on 
an  imprudent  supper  enjoyed  in  company  with  Tom 
Towers. 

How  beautiful  Eleanor  appeared  to  him  as  she 
slowly  walked  into  the  room !  Not  for  nothing  had  all 
those  little  cares  been  taken.  Though  her  sister,  the 
archdeacon's  wife,  had  spoken  slightingly  of  her  charms, 
Eleanor  was  very  beautiful  when  seen  aright.  Hers 
was  not  of  those  impassive  faces,  which  have  the 
beauty  of  a  marble  bust ;  finely  chiselled  features,  per- 
fect in  every  Hue,  true  to  the  rules  of  symmetry,  as 
lovely  to  a  stranger  as  to  a  friend,  unvarying  unless  in 
sickness,  or  as  age  affects  them.  She  had  no  starthng 
brilliancy  of  beauty,  no  pearly  whiteness,  no  radiant  car- 
nation. She  had  not  the  majestic  contour  that  rivets  at- 
tention, demands  instant  wonder,  and  then  disappoints 
by  the  coldness  of  its  charms.  You  might  pass  Eleanor 
Harding  in  the  street  without  notice,  but  you  could 
hardly  pass  an  evening  with  her  and  not  lose  your  heart. 

She  had  never  appeared  more  lovely  to  her  lover 
than  she  did  now.  Her  face  was  animated  though  it 
was  serious,  and  her  full  dark  lustrous  eyes  shone  with 
anxious  energy ;  her  hand  trembled  as  she  took  his, 
and  she  could  hardly  pronounce  his  name,  when  she 
addressed  him.  Bold  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  the 
Australian  scheme  was  in  the  act  of  realisation,  and 
that  he  and  Eleanor  were  away  together,  never  to  hear 
fiu-ther  of  the  lawsuit. 


IPHIGENIA. 


He  began  to  talk,  asked  after  her  health; — said 
something  about  London  being  very  stupid,  and  more 
about  Barchester  being  very  pleasant;  declared  the 
weather  to  be  very  hot,  and  then  inquired  after  Mr. 
Harding. 

**  My  father  is  not  very  well,"  said  Eleanor. 

John  Bold  was  very  sorry, — so  sorry!  He  hoped  it 
was  nothing  serious,  and  put  on  the  unmeaningly 
solemn  face,  which  people  usually  use  on  such  occasions. 

"  I  especially  want  to  speak  to  you  about  my  father, 
Mr.  Bold.  Indeed,  I  am  now  here  on  purpose  to  do 
so.  Papa  is  very  unhappy,  very  unhappy  indeed,  about 
this  affair  of  the  hospital.  You  would  pity  him,  Mr. 
Bold,  if  you  could  see  how  wretched  it  has  made  him." 

"  Oh  Miss  Harding!" 
Indeed  you  would ; — any  one  would  pity  him  ; 
but  a  friend,  an  old  friend  as  you  are ; — indeed  you 
would.  He  is  an  altered  man ;  his  cheerfulness  has 
all  gone,  and  his  sweet  temper,  and  his  kind  happy 
tone  of  voice  ;  you  would  hardly  know  him  if  you  saw 
him,  Mr.  Bold,  he  is  so  much  altered ;  and — and — if 
this  goes  on,  he  will  die."  Here  Eleanor  had  recoiuse 
to  her  handkerchief,  and  so  also  had  her  auditors ;  but 
she  plucked  up  her  courage,  and  went  on  with  her  tale. 
"  He  will  break  his  heart,  and  die.  I  am  sure,  Mr. 
Bold,  it  was  not  you  who  wrote  those  cruel  things  in 
the  newspaper." 

John  Bold  eagerly  protested  that  it  was  not,  but  his 
heart  smote  him  as  to  his  intimate  alHance  with  Tom 
Towers. 

"  No,  I  am  sure  it  was  not ;  and  papa  has  not  for  a 
moment  thought  so  ;  you  would  not  be  so  cruel ; — ^but 
it  has  nearly  killed  him.    Papa  cannot  bear  to  think 


134 


THE  WARDEN. 


that  people  should  so  speak  of  him,  and  that  every- 
body should  hear  him  so  spoken  of.  They  have  called 
him  avaricious,  and  dishonest,  and  they  say  he  is  rob- 
bing the  old  men,  and  taking  the  money  of  the  hospital 
for  nothing." 

I  have  never  said  so,  Miss  Harding.    I  " 

"  No,"  continued  Eleanor,  interrupting  him,  for  she 
was  now  in  the  full  flood  tide  of  her  eloquence ;  "  no, 
I  am  sure  you  have  not ;  but  others  have  said  so ;  and 
if  this  goes  on,  if  such  things  are  written  again,  it  will 
kill  papa.  Oh!  Mr.  Bold,  if  you  only  knew  the  state 
he  is  in !    Now  papa  does  not  care  much  about  money." 

Both  her  auditors,  brother  and  sister,  assented  to  this, 
and  declared  on  their  own  knowledge  that  no  man  lived 
legis  addicted  to  filthy  lucre  than  the  warden. 

"  Oh !  it 's  so  kind  of  you  to  say  so,  Mary,  and  of 
you  too,  Mr.  Bold.  I  could  n't  bear  that  people  should 
think  unjustly  of  papa.  Do  you  know  he  would  give 
up  the  hospital  altogether; — only  he  cannot.  The 
archdeacon  says  it  would  be  cowardly,  and  that  he 
would  be  deserting  his  order,  and  injuring  the  church. 
Whatever  may  happen,  papa  will  not  do  that.  He 
would  leave  the  place  to-morrow  willingly,  and  give  up 
his  house,  and  the  income  and  all,  if  the  archdea- 
con "    Eleanor  was  going  to  say  "  would  let  him," 

but  she  stopped  herself  before  she  had  compromised 
her  father's  dignity  ;  and  giving  a  long  sigh,  she  added 
— "  Oh,  I  do  so  wish  he  would!  " 

"  No  one  who  knows  Mr.  Harding  personally,  ac- 
cuses him  for  a  moment,"  said  Bold. 

"  It  is  he  that  has  to  bear  the  punishment ;  it  is  he 
that  suffers,"  said  Eleanor;  "and  what  for?  what  has 
he  done  wrong?  how  has  he  deserved  this  persecution? 


IPHIGENIA. 


he  that  never  had  an  unkind  thought  in  his  hfe,  he  that 
never  said  an  unkind  word! "  and  here  she  broke  down, 
and  the  violence  of  her  sobs  stopped  her  utterance. 

Bold,  for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time,  declared  that  neither 
he  nor  any  of  his  friends  imputed  any  blame  person- 
ally to  Mr.  Harding. 

" Then  why  should  he  be  persecuted?"  ejaculated 
Eleanor  through  her  tears,  forgetting  in  her  eagerness 
that  her  intention  had  been  to  humble  herself  as  a  sup- 
pliant before  John  Bold; — "why  should  he  be  singled 
out  for  scorn  and  disgrace?  why  should  he  be  made 
so  wretched?  Oh!  Mr.  Bold," — and  she  turned  to- 
wards him  as  though  the  kneeling  scene  were  about 
to  be  commenced — "  oh!  Mr.  Bold,  why  did  you  begin 
all  this?    You,  whom  we  all  so — so — valued!  " 

To  speak  the  truth,  the  reformer's  punishment  was 
certainly  come  upon  him ;  his  present  plight  was  not 
enviable ;  he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  excuse  himself 
by  platitudes  about  public  duty,  which  it  is  by  no 
means  worth  while  to  repeat,  and  to  reiterate  his  eulogy 
on  Mr.  Harding's  character.  His  position  was  cer- 
tainly a  cruel  one.  Had  any  gentleman  called  upon 
him  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Harding  he  could  of  course  have 
declined  to  enter  upon  the  subject ;  but  how  could  he 
do  so  with  a  beautiful  girl,  with  the  daughter  of  the 
man  whom  he  had  injured,  with  his  own  love? 

In  the  meantime  Eleanor  recollected  herself,  and 
again  summoned  up  her  energies. 

"  Mr.  Bold,"  said  she,  "  I  have  come  here  to  implore 
you  to  abandon  this  proceeding."  He  stood  up  from 
his  seat,  and  looked  beyond  measure  distressed.  "  To 
implore  you  to  abandon  it,  to  implore  you  to  spare  my 
father,  to  spare  either  his  life  or  his  reason,  for  one  or 


e 

136  THE  WARDEN. 

the  other  will  pay  the  forfeit  if  this  goes  on.  I  know 
how  much  I  am  asking,  and  how  little  right  I  have  to 
ask  anything ;  but  I  think  you  will  listen  to  me  as  it 
is  for  my  father.  Oh,  Mr.  Bold,  pray,  pray  do  this  for 
us ; — pray  do  not  drive  to  distraction  a  man  who  has 
loved  you  so  well." 

She  did  not  absolutely  kneel  to  him,  but  she  followed 
him  as  he  moved  from  his  chair,  and  laid  her  soft  hands 
imploringly  upon  his  arm.  Ah !  at  any  other  time  how 
exquisitely  valuable  would  have  been  that  touch!  but 
now  he  was  distraught,  dumb-founded,  and  unmanned. 
What  could  he  say  to  that  sweet  suppliant ;  how  ex- 
plain to  her  that  the  matter  now  was  probably  beyond 
his  control ;  how  tell  her  that  he  could  not  quell  the 
storm  which  he  had  raised? 

"  Surely,  surely,  John,  you  cannot  refuse  her,"  said 
his  sister. 

"  I  would  give  her  my  soul,"  said  he,  "  if  it  would 
serve  her." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bold,"  said  Eleanor,  "  do  not  speak  so ; 
I  ask  nothing  for  myself;  and  what  I  ask  for  my 
father,  it  cannot  harm  you  to  grant." 

"  I  would  give  her  my  soul,  if  it  would  serve  her," 
said  Bold,  still  addressing  his  sister ;  "  everything  I 
have  is  hers,  if  she  will  accept  it ;  my  house,  my  heart, 
my  all ;  every  hope  of  my  breast  is  centred  in  her ; 
her  smiles  are  sweeter  to  me  than  the  sun,  and  when 
I  see  her  in  sorrow  as  she  now  is,  every  nerve  in  my 
body  suffers.  No  man  can  love  better  than  I  love 
her." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  ejaculated  Eleanor ;  "  there  can  be  no 
talk  of  love  between  us.  Will  you  protect  my  father 
from  the  evil  you  have  brought  upon  him?  " 


IPHIGENIA. 


"  Oh,  Eleanor,  I  will  do  anything ;  let  me  tell  you 
how  I  love  you! " 

No,  no,  no,"  she  almost  screamed.  "  This  is  un- 
manly of  you,  Mr.  Bold.  Will  you,  will  you,  will  you 
leave  my  father  to  die  in  peace  in  his  quiet  home?" 
And  seizing  him  by  his  arm  and  hand,  she  followed 
him  across  the  room  towards  the  door.  "  I  will  not 
leave  you  till  you  promise  me ;  I  '11  cling  to  you  in  the 
street ;  I  '11  kneel  to  you  before  all  the  people.  You 
shall  promise  me  this ;  you  shall  promise  me  this ;  you 

shall  "    And  she  clung  to  him  with  fixed  tenacity, 

and  reiterated  her  resolve  with  hysterical  passion. 

Speak  to  her,  John ;  answer  her,"  said  Mary,  be- 
wildered by  the  unexpected  vehemence  of  Eleanor's 
manner ;  "  you  cannot  have  the  cruelty  to  refuse  her." 

"  Promise  me,  promise  me,"  said  Eleanor ;  say  that 
my  father  is  safe.  One  word  will  do.  I  know  how 
true  you  are ;  say  one  word,  and  I  will  let  you  go." 

She  still  held  him,  and  looked  eagerly  into  his  face, 
with  her  hair  dishevelled,  and  her  eyes  all  bloodshot. 
She  had  no  thought  now  of  herself,  no  care  now  for 
her  appearance  ;  and  yet  he  thought  he  had  never  seen 
her  half  so  lovely ;  he  was  amazed  at  the  intensity  of 
her  beauty,  and  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was  she 
whom  he  had  dared  to  love.  "  Promise  me,"  said  she. 
"  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you  have  promised  me." 

"  I  will,"  said  he  at  length ;  "  I  do.  All  I  can  do, 
I  will  do." 

"  Then  may  God  Almighty  bless  you  for  ever  and 
ever!"  said  Eleanor;  and  falling  on  her  knees  with 
her  face  on  Mary's  lap,  she  wept  and  sobbed  like  a 
child.  Her  strength  had  carried  her  through  her  al- 
lotted task,  but  now  it  was  well  nigh  exhausted. 


138 


THE  WARDEN. 


In  a  while  she  was  partly  recovered,  and  got  up  to 
go,  and  would  have  gone,  had  not  Bold  made  her  un- 
derstand that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  explain  to 
her  how  far  it  was  in  his  power  to  put  an  end  to  the 
proceedings  which  had  been  taken  against  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. Had  he  spoken  on  any  other  subject,  she  would 
have  vanished,  but  on  that  she  was  bound  to  hear  him. 
And  now  the  danger  of  her  position  commenced. 
While  she  had  an  active  part  to  play,  while  she  clung 
to  him  as  a  suppliant,  it  was  easy  enough  for  her  to  re- 
ject his  proffered  love,  and  cast  from  her  his  caressing 
words ;  but  now, — now  that  he  had  yielded,  and  was 
talking  to  her  calmly  and  kindly  as  to  her  father's 
welfare,  it  was  hard  enough  for  her  to  do  so.  Then 
Mary  Bold  assisted  her ;  but  now  she  was  quite  on  her 
brother's  side.  Mary  said  but  little,  but  every  word 
she  did  say  gave  some  direct  and  deadly  blow.  The 
first  thing  she  did  was  to  make  room  for  her  brother 
between  herself  and  Eleanor  on  the  sofa.  As  the  sofa 
was  full  large  for  three,  Eleanor  could  not  resent  this, 
nor  could  she  show  suspicion  by  taking  another  seat ; 
but  she  felt  it  to  be  a  most  unkind  proceeding.  And 
then  Mary  would  talk  as  though  they  three  were  joined 
in  some  close  peculiar  bond  together ;  as  though  they 
were  in  future  always  to  wish  together,  contrive  to- 
gether, and  act  together ;  and  Eleanor  could  not  gain- 
say this ;  she  could  not  make  another  speech,  and  say, 
"  Mr.  Bold  and  I  are  strangers,  Mary,  and  are  always 
to  remain  so! " 

He  explained  to  her  that,  though  undoubtedly  the 
proceeding  against  the  hospital  had  commenced  solely 
with  himself,  many  others  were  now  interested  in  the 
matter,  some  of  whom  were  much  more  influential  than 


IPHIGENIA. 


himself ;  that  it  was  to  him  alone,  however,  that  the  law- 
yers looked  for  instruction  as  to  their  doings,  and,  more 
important  still,  for  the  payment  of  their  bills.  And  he 
promised  that  he  would  at  once  give  them  notice  that 
it  was  his  intention  to  abandon  the  cause.  He  thought^ 
he  said,  that  it  was  not  probable  that  any  active  steps 
would  be  taken  after  he  had  seceded  from  the  matter, 
though  it  was  possible  that  some  passing  allusion  might 
still  be  made  to  the  hospital  in  the  daily  Jupiter.  He 
promised,  however,  that  he  would  use  his  best  influ- 
ence to  prevent  any  further  personal  allusion  being 
made  to  Mr.  Harding.  He  then  suggested  that  he 
would  on  that  afternoon  ride  over  himself  to  Dr. 
Grantly,  and  inform  him  of  his  altered  intentions  on 
the  subject,  and  with  this  view,  he  postponed  his  im- 
mediate return  to  London. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant,  and  Eleanor  did  enjoy 
a  sort  of  triumph  in  the  feeHng  that  she  had  attained 
the  object  for  which  she  had  sought  this  interview. 
But  still  the  part  of  Iphigenia  was  to  be  played  out. 
The  gods  had  heard  her  prayer,  granted  her  request, 
and  were  they  not  to  have  their  promised  sacrifice? 
Eleanor  was  not  a  girl  to  defraud  them  wilfully; 
so,  as  soon  as  she  decently  could,  she  got  up  for  her 
bonnet. 

"Are  you  going  so  soon?  "  said  Bold,  who  half-an- 
hour  since  would  have  given  a  hundred  pounds  that 
he  was  in  London,  and  she  still  at  Barchester. 

"Oh  yes!"  said  she.  "I  am  so  much  obliged  to 
you ;  papa  will  feel  this  to  be  so  kind."  She  did  not 
quite  appreciate  all  her  father's  feelings.  "  Of  course 
I  must  tell  him,  and  I  will  say  that  you  will  see  the 
archdeacon." 


140 


THE  WARDEN. 


"But  may  I  not  say  one  word  for  myself?"  said 
Bold. 

"  I  '11  fetch  you  your  bonnet,  Eleanor,"  said  Mary, 
in  the  act  of  leaving  the  room. 

"  Mary,  Mary,"  said  she,  getting  up  and  catching  her 
by  her  dress ;  "  don't  go,  I  '11  get  my  bonnet  myself ; 
but  Mary,  the  traitress,  stood  fast  by  the  door,  and 
permitted  no  such  retreat.    Poor  Iphigenia! 

And  with  a  volley  of  impassioned  love,  John  Bold 
poured  forth  the  feelings  of  his  heart,  swearing,  as  men 
do,  some  truths  and  many  falsehoods ;  and  Eleanor 
repeated  with  every  shade  of  vehemence  the  "  No,  no, 
no,"  which  had  had  a  short  time  since  so  much  effect. 
But  now,  alas!  its  strength  was  gone.  Let  her  be 
never  so  vehement,  her  vehemence  was  not  respected. 
All  her  "  No,  no,  no's  "  were  met  with  counter  assever- 
ations, and  at  last  were  overpowered.  The  ground 
was  cut  from  under  her  on  every  side.  She  was  pressed 
to  say  whether  her  father  would  object ;  whether  she 
herself  had  any  aversion; — aversion!  God  help  her, 
poor  girl!  the  word  nearly  made  her  jump  into  his 
arms — ;  any  other  preference; — this  she  loudly  dis- 
claimed— ;  whether  it  was  impossible  that  she  should 
love  him ; — Eleanor  could  not  say  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble— ;  and  so  at  last,  all  her  defences  demolished,  all 
her  maiden  barriers  swept  away;  she  capitulated,  or 
rather  marched  out  with  the  honours  of  war,  van- 
quished evidently,  palpably  vanquished,  but  still  not  re- 
duced to  the  necessity  of  confessing  it. 

And  so  the  altar  on  the  shore  of  the  modern  Aulis 
reeked  with  no  sacrifice. 


■\'*fci-Z.. 


'But  may  i  not  say  one  word  for  myself?' 
Bold. 

"  I  'II  fetch  you  your  bonnet,  Eleanor,"  said  Mary, 

in  the  act  of  leavi' 

"  Mary,  ]\f  ?>n' . '  -  np  and  catching  her 

by  herd:/  bonnet  myself ; 

the  door,  and 

nia! 

ohn  Bold 


; "  Don'tgOy  I  \ll get  my  bonnet  myself.'''' 


\\  .ib  cut  iiom  under  iicr  ou  cv  ci  y  biue.  buc  vs  as  pressed 
to  say  whether  her  fnrher  would  object;  whether  she 
herself  h."  -aversion!   God  help  her, 

>  his 


reeked  wii 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MR.  BOLD's  visit  TO  PLUMSTEAD. 

Whether  or  no  the  ill-natured  prediction  made  by 
certain  ladies  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  chapter,  was 
or  was  not  carried  out  to  the  letter,  I  am  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  state.  Eleanor,  however,  certainly  did  feel  her- 
self to  have  been  baffled  as  she  returned  home  with  all 
her  news  to  her  father.  Certainly  she  had  been  victo- 
rious, certainly  she  had  achieved  her  object,  certainly 
she  was  not  unhappy ;  and  yet  she  did  not  feel  herself 
triumphant.  Everything  would  run  smooth  now.  El- 
eanor was  not  at  all  addicted  to  the  Lydian  school  of 
romance.  She  by  no  means  objected  to  her  lover  be- 
cause he  came  in  at  the  door  under  the  name  of  Abso- 
lute, instead  of  pulling  her  out  of  a  window  under  the 
name  of  Beverley.  Yet  she  felt  that  she  had  been  im- 
posed upon,  and  could  hardly  think  of  Mary  Bold  with 
sisterly  charity.  "  I  did  believe  I  could  have  trusted 
Mary,"  she  said  to  herself  over  and  over  again.  "  Oh 
that  she  should  have  dared  to  keep  me  in  the  room 
when  I  tried  to  get  out!"  Eleanor,  however,  felt 
that  the  game  was  up,  and  that  she  had  now  nothing 
further  to  do,  but  to  add  to  the  budget  of  news  which 
was  prepared  for  her  father,  that  John  Bold  was  her 
accepted  lover. 

We  will,  however,  now  leave  her  on  her  way,  and 


142 


THE  WARDEN. 


go  with  John  Bold  to  Plumstead  Episcopi,  merely 
premising  that  Eleanor  on  reaching  home  will  not  find 
things  so  smooth  as  she  fondly  expected.  Two  mes- 
sengers had  come,  one  to  her  father,  and  the  other  to 
the  archdeacon,  and  each  of  them  much  opposed  to 
her  quiet  mode  of  solving  all  their  difficulties; — the 
one  in  the  shape  of  a  number  of  the  Jupiter,  and  the 
other  in  that  of  a  further  opinion  from  Sir  Abraham 
Haphazard. 

John  Bold  got  on  his  horse  and  rode  off  to  Plum- 
stead  Episcopi ;  not  briskly  and  with  eager  spur,  as 
men  do  ride  when  self-satisfied  with  their  own  inten- 
tions ;  but  slowly,  modestly,  thoughtfully,  and  some- 
what in  dread  of  the  coming  interview.  Now  and 
again  he  would  recur  to  the  scene  which  was  just  over, 
support  himself  by  the  remembrance  of  the  silence  that 
gives  consent,  and  exult  as  a  happy  lover.  But  even 
this  feeling  was  not  without  a  shade  of  remorse.  Had 
he  not  shown  himself  childishly  weak  thus  to  yield  up 
the  resolve  of  many  hours  of  thought  to  the  tears  of  a 
pretty  girl?  How  was  he  to  meet  his  lawyer?  How 
was  he  to  back  out  of  a  matter  in  which  his  name  was 
already  so  publicly  concerned?  What,  oh  what!  was 
he  to  say  to  Tom  Towers?  While  meditating  these 
painful  things  he  reached  the  lodge  leading  up  to  the 
archdeacon's  glebe,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
found  himself  within  the  sacred  precincts. 

All  the  doctor's  children  were  together  on  the  slope 
of  the  lawn,  close  to  the  road,  as  Bold  rode  up  to  the 
hall  door.  They  were  there  holding  high  debate  on 
matters  evidently  of  deep  interest  at  Plumstead  Epis- 
copi, and  the  voices  of  the  boys  had  been  heard  before 
the  lodge  gate  was  closed. 


MR.  BOLD'S  visit  TO  PLUMSTEAD.  I43 

Florinda  and  Grizzel,  frightened  at  the  sight  of  so 
well-known  an  enemy  to  the  family,  fled  on  the  first 
appearance  of  the  horseman,  and  ran  in  terror  to  their 
mother's  arms.  Not  for  them  was  it,  tender  branches, 
to  resent  injuries,  or  as  members  of  a  church  militant  to 
put  on  armour  against  its  enemies.  But  the  boys  stood 
their  ground  like  heroes,  and  boldly  demanded  the 
business  of  the  intruder. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  anybody  here,  sir? "  said 
Henry,  with  a  defiant  eye  and  a  hostile  tone,  which 
plainly  said  that  at  any  rate  no  one  there  wanted  to 
see  the  person  so  addressed ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  bran- 
dished aloft  his  garden  water-pot,  holding  it  by  the 
spout,  ready  for  the  braining  of  any  one. 

"  Henry,"  said  Charles  James,  slowly,  and  with  a 
certain  dignity  of  diction,  "  Mr.  Bold  of  course  would 
not  have  come  without  wanting  to  see  some  one.  If 
Mr.  Bold  has  a  proper  ground  for  wanting  to  see  some 
person  here,  of  course  he  has  a  right  to  come." 

But  Samuel  stepped  lightly  up  to  the  horse's  head, 
and  offered  his  services.  "Oh,  Mr.  Bold,"  said  he, 
"papa,  I 'm  sure,  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  I  suppose 
you  want  to  see  papa.  Shall  I  hold  your  horse  for 
you?  Oh,  what  a  very  pretty  horse!"  and  he  turned 
his  head  and  winked  funnily  at  his  brothers.  "  Papa 
has  heard  such  good  news  about  the  old  hospital  to- 
day. We  know  you  '11  be  glad  to  hear  it,  because 
you  *re  such  a  friend  of  grandpapa  Harding,  and  so 
much  in  love  with  aunt  Nelly! " 

"  How  d'ye  do,  lads?  "  said  Bold,  dismounting.  "  I 
want  to  see  your  father  if  he 's  at  home." 

"  Lads ! "  said  Henry,  turning  on  his  heel  and  ad- 
dressing himself  to  his  brother,  but  loud  enough  to  be 


144 


THE  WARDEN. 


heard  by  Bold;  "lads,  indeed!  if  we  're  lads,  what 
does  he  call  himself  ?  " 

Charles  James  condescended  to  say  nothing  further, 
but  cocked  his  hat  with  much  precision,  and  left  the 
visitor  to  the  care  of  his  youngest  brother. 

Samuel  stayed  till  the  servant  came,  chatting  and 
patting  the  horse;  but  as  soon  as  Bold  had  disap- 
peared through  the  front  door,  he  stuck  a  switch  under 
the  animal's  tail  to  make  him  kick,  if  possible. 

The  church  reformer  soon  found  himself  tete  k  tete 
with  the  archdeacon  in  that  same  room,  in  that  sanc- 
tum sanctorum  of  the  rectory,  to  which  we  have  already 
been  introduced.  As  he  entered  he  heard  the  click  of 
a  certain  patent  lock,  but  it  struck  him  with  no  sur- 
prise;  the  worthy  clergyman  was  no  doubt  hiding 
from  eyes  profane  his  last  much-studied  sermon ;  for 
the  archdeacon,  though  he  preached  but  seldom,  was 
famous  for  his  sermons.  No  room.  Bold  thought, 
could  have  been  more  becoming  for  a  dignitary  of  the 
church;  each  wall  was  loaded  with  theology;  over 
each  separate  book-case  was  printed  in  small  gold  let- 
ters the  names  of  those  great  divines  whose  works  were 
ranged  beneath ;  beginning  from  the  early  fathers  in 
due  chronological  order,  there  were  to  be  found  the 
precious  labours  of  the  chosen  servants  of  the  church 
down  to  the  last  pamphlet  written  in  opposition  to  the 
consecration  of  Dr.  Hampden ; — and  raised  above  this 
were  to  be  seen  the  busts  of  the  greatest  among  the 
great;  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  Thomas  k  Becket, 
Cardinal  Wolsey,  Archbishop  Laud,  and  Dr.  Philpotts. 

Every  appliance  that  could  make  study  pleasant  and 
give  ease  to  the  over-toiled  brain  was  there ;  chairs 
made  to  relieve  each  limb  and  muscle ;  reading-desks 


MR.  BOLD's  visit  TO  PLUMSTEAD.  145 

and  writing-desks  to  suit  every  attitude;  lamps  and 
candles  mechanically  contrived  to  throw  their  light  on 
any  favoured  spot,  as  the  student  might  desire ;  a  shoal 
of  nev/spapers  to  amuse  the  few  leisure  moments  which 
might  be  stolen  from  the  labours  of  the  day ;  and  then 
from  the  window  a  view  right  through  a  bosky  vista 
along  which  ran  a  broad  green  path  from  the  rectory 
to  the  church, — at  the  end  of  which  the  tawny-tinted 
fine  old  tower  was  seen  with  all  its  variegated  pinnacles 
and  parapets.  Few  parish  churches  in  England  are  in 
better  repair,  or  better  worth  keeping  so,  than  that  at 
Plumstead  Episcopi;  and  yet  it  is  built  in  a  faulty 
style.  The  body  of  the  church  is  low; — so  low,  that 
the  nearly  flat  leaden  roof  would  be  visible  from  the 
churchyard,  were  it  not  for  the  carved  parapet  with 
which  it  is  surrounded.  It  is  cruciform,  though  the 
transepts  are  irregular,  one  being  larger  than  the  other ; 
and  the  tower  is  much  too  high  in  proportion  to  the 
church.  But  the  colour  of  the  building  is  perfect ;  it 
is  that  rich  yellow  grey  which  one  finds  nowhere  but 
in  the  south  and  west  of  England,  and  which  is  so 
strong  a  characteristic  of  most  of  our  old  houses  of 
Tudor  architecture.  The  stone  work  also  is  beautiful ; 
the  mullions  of  the  windows  and  the  thick  tracery  of 
the  Gothic  workmanship  is  as  rich  as  fancy  can  desire ; 
and  though  in  gazing  on  such  a  structure,  one  knows 
by  rule  that  the  old  priests  who  built  it,  built  it  wrong, 
one  cannot  bring  oneself  to  wish  that  they  should  have 
made  it  other  than  it  is. 

When  Bold  was  ushered  into  the  book-room,  he 
found  its  owner  standing  with  his  back  to  the  empty 
fireplace  ready  to  receive  him,  and  he  could  not  but 
perceive  that  that  expansive  brow  was  elated  with 

10 


146 


THE  WARDEN. 


triumph,  and  that  those  full  heavy  lips  bore  more  prom- 
inently than  usual  an  appearance  of  arrogant  success. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bold,"  said  he; — "well,  what  can  I  do 
for  you?  Very  happy,  I  can  assure  you,  to  do  any- 
thing for  such  a  friend  of  my  father-in-law." 

"  I  hope  you  '11  excuse  my  calling.  Dr.  Grantly." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "  I  can 
assure  you,  no  apology  is  necessary  from  Mr.  Bold ; — 
only  let  me  know  what  I  can  do  for  him." 

Dr.  Grantly  was  standing  himself,  and  he  did  not 
ask  Bold  to  sit,  and  therefore  he  had  to  tell  his  tale 
standing,  leaning  on  the  table,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
He  did,  however,  manage  to  tell  it ;  and  as  the  arch- 
deacon never  once  interrupted  him  or  even  encouraged 
him  by  a  single  word,  he  was  not  long  in  coming  to 
the  end  of  it. 

"  And  so,  Mr.  Bold,  I 'm  to  understand,  I  beheve, 
that  you  are  desirous  of  abandoning  this  attack  upon 
Mr.  Harding." 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Grantly,  there  has  been  no  attack,  I  can 
assure  you." 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  words ;  I  should 
call  it  an  attack ; — most  men  would  so  call  an  endeav- 
our to  take  away  from  a  man  every  shilling  of  income 
that  he  has  to  live  upon ;  but  it  shan't  be  an  attack,  if 
you  don't  like  it ;  you  wish  to  abandon  this, — this  Httle 
game  of  back-gammon  you 've  begun  to  play." 

"I  intend  to  put  an  end  to  the  legal  proceedings 
which  I  have  commenced." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "You 've 
already  had  enough  of  it.  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  am 
surprised.  Carrying  on  a  losing  lawsuit  where  one  has 
nothing  to  gain,  but  everything  to  pay,  is  not  pleasant." 


MR.  BOLD'S  visit  TO  PLUMSTEAD.  1 47 

Bold  turned  very  red  in  the  face.  "  You  misinter- 
pret my  motives,"  said  he ;  "  but,  however,  that  is  of 
little  consequence.  I  did  not  come  to  trouble  you 
with  my  motives,  but  to  tell  you  a  matter  of  fact. 
Good  morning,  Dr.  Grantly." 

"  One  moment, — one  moment,"  said  the  other.  "  I 
don't  exactly  appreciate  the  taste  v/hich  induced  you 
to  make  any  personal  communication  to  me  on  the 
subject;  but  I  dare  say  I 'm  wrong;  I  dare  say  your 
judgment  is  the  better  of  the  two ;  but  as  you  have 
done  me  the  honour; — as  you  have,  as  it  were,  forced 
me  into  a  certain  amount  of  conversation  on  a  subject 
which  had  better,  perhaps,  have  been  left  to  our  law- 
yers, you  will  excuse  me  if  I  ask  you  to  hear  my  reply 
to  your  communication." 

I  am  in  a  hurry.  Dr.  Grantly." 

''Well,  I  am,  Mr.  Bold;  my  time  is  not  exactly 
leisure  time,  and,  therefore,  if  you  please,  we  '11  go  to 
the  point  at  once.  You  are  going  to  abandon  this  law- 
suit? " — and  he  paused  for  a  reply. 

"Yes,  Dr.  Grantly,  I  am." 

"  Having  exposed  a  gentleman  who  was  one  of  your 
father's  warmest  friends,  to  all  the  ignominy  and  inso- 
lence which  the  press  could  heap  upon  his  name,  hav- 
ing somewhat  ostentatiously  declared  that  it  was  your 
duty  as  a  man  of  high  public  virtue  to  protect  those 
poor  old  fools  whom  you  have  humbugged  there  at 
the  hospital,  you  now  find  that  the  game  costs  more 
than  it 's  worth,  and  so  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
have  done  with  it.  A  prudent  resolution,  Mr.  Bold ; — 
but  it  is  a  pity  you  should  have  been  so  long  coming 
to  it.  Has  it  struck  you  that  we  may  not  now  choose 
to  give  over?  that  we  may  find  it  necessary  to  punish 


148 


THE  WARDEN. 


the  injury  you  have  done  to  us?  Are  you  aware,  sir, 
that  we  have  gone  to  enormous  expense  to  resist  this 
iniquitous  attempt  of  yours?  " 

Bold's  face  was  now  furiously  red,  and  he  nearly 
crushed  his  hat  between  his  hands;  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  We  have  found  it  necessary  to  employ  the  best  ad- 
vice that  money  could  procure.  Are  you  aware,  sir, 
what  may  be  the  probable  cost  of  securing  the  services 
of  the  attorney-general?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,  Dr.  Grantly." 

"  I  dare  say  not,  sir.  When  you  recklessly  put  this 
affair  into  the  hands  of  your  friend  Mr.  Finney,  whose 
six  and  eightpences  and  thirteen  and  fourpences  may, 
probably,  not  amount  to  a  large  sum,  you  were  indif- 
ferent as  to  the  cost  and  suffering  which  such  a  pro- 
ceeding might  entail  on  others.  But  are  you  aware, 
sir,  that  these  crushing  costs  must  now  come  out  of 
your  own  pocket?  " 

"  Any  demand  of  such  a  nature  which  Mr.  Harding's 
lawyer  may  have  to  make,  will  doubtless  be  made  to 
my  lawyer." 

"  Mr.  Harding's  lawyer  and  my  lawyer!  Did  you 
come  here  merely  to  refer  me  to  the  lawyers?  Upon 
my  word  I  think  the  honour  of  your  visit  might  have 
been  spared!  And  now,  sir,  I  '11  tell  you  what  my 
opinion  is.  My  opinion  is,  that  we  shall  not  allow  you 
to  withdraw  this  matter  from  the  courts." 

"You  can  do  as  you  please.  Dr.  Grantly;  good 
morning." 

"  Hear  me  out,  sir,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  I  have 
here  in  my  hands  the  last  opinion  given  in  this  matter 
by  Sir  Abraham  Haphazard.    I  dare  say  you  have 


MR.  BOLD'S  visit  TO  PLUMSTEAD.  1 49 


already  heard  of  this.  I  dare  say  it  has  had  something 
to  do  with  your  visit  here  to-day." 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever  of  Sir  Abraham  Hap- 
hazard or  his  opinion." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  here  it  is.  He  declares  most 
explicitly  that  under  no  phasis  of  the  affair  whatever 
have  you  a  leg  to  stand  upon;  that  Mr.  Harding  is 
as  safe  in  his  hospital  as  I  am  here  in  my  rectory ;  that 
a  more  futile  attempt  to  destroy  a  man  was  never  made, 
than  this  which  you  have  made  to  ruin  Mr.  Harding. 
Here,"  and  he  slapped  the  paper  on  the  table,  "  I  have 
this  opinion  from  the  very  first  lawyer  in  the  land ;  and 
under  these  circumstances  you  expect  me  to  make  you 
a  low  bow  for  your  kind  offer  to  release  Mr.  Hard- 
ing from  the  toils  of  your  net!  Sir,  your  net  is  not 
strong  enough  to  hold  him;  sir,  your  net  has  fallen 
to  pieces,  and  you  knew  that  well  enough  before  I  told 
you.  And  now,  sir,  I  '11  wish  you  good  morning,  for 
I  am  busy." 

Bold  was  now  choking  with  passion.  He  had  let  the 
archdeacon  run  on,  because  he  knew  not  with  what 
words  to  interrupt  him ;  but  now  that  he  had  been  so 
defied  and  insulted,  he  could  not  leave  the  room  with- 
out some  reply. 

"  Dr.  Grantly,"  he  commenced. 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say  or  to  hear,"  said  the 
archdeacon.  "  I  '11  do  myself  the  honour  to  order  your 
horse."    And  he  rang  the  bell. 

"  I  came  here,  Dr.  Grantly,  with  the  warmest,  kind- 
est feelings  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  did  ;  nobody  doubts  it." 

"With  the  kindest  feelings; — and  they  have  been 
most  grossly  outraged  by  your  treatment." 


THE  WARDEN. 


"Of  course  they  have!  I  have  not  chosen  to  see 
my  father-in-law  ruined.  What  an  outrage  that  has 
been  to  your  feehngs ! " 

"  The  time  will  come,  Dr.  Grantly,  when  you  will 
understand  why  I  called  upon  you  to-day." 

"  No  doubt;  no  doubt.  Is  Mr.  Bold's  horse  there? 
That 's  right ;  open  the  front  door.  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Bold ; "  and  the  doctor  stalked  into  his  own  draw- 
ing-room, closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  making  it 
quite  impossible  that  John  Bold  should  speak  another 
word  to  him. 

As  John  Bold  got  on  his  horse,  which  he  was  fain 
to  do  feeling  like  a  dog  turned  out  of  a  kitchen,  he 
was  again  greeted  by  little  Sammy. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Bold ;  I  hope  we  may  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  before  long ;  I  am  sure 
papa  will  always  be  glad  to  see  you." 

That  was  certainly  the  bitterest  moment  in  John 
Bold's  life.  Not  even  the  remembrance  of  his  success- 
ful love  could  comfort  him.  Nay,  when  he  thought 
of  Eleanor,  he  felt  that  it  was  that  very  love  which  had 
brought  him  to  such  a  pass.  That  he  should  have 
been  so  insulted,  and  be  unable  to  reply!  That  he 
should  have  given  up  so  much  to  the  request  of  a  girl, 
and  then  have  had  his  motives  so  misunderstood !  That 
he  should  have  made  so  gross  a  mistake  as  this  visit  of 
his  to  the  archdeacon's!  He  bit  the  top  of  his  whip, 
till  he  penetrated  the  horn  of  which  it  was  made.  He 
struck  the  poor  animal  in  his  anger,  and  then  was 
doubly  angry  with  himself  at  his  futile  passion.  He 
had  been  so  completely  check-mated,  so  palpably  over- 
come! And  what  was  he  to  do?  He  could  not  con- 
tinue his  action  after  pledging  himself  to  abandon  it. 


MR.  BOLD*S  VISIT  TO  PLUMSTEAD.  151 

Nor  was  there  any  revenge  in  that.  It  was  the  very 
step  to  which  his  enemy  had  endeavoured  to  goad  him! 

He  threw  the  reins  to  the  servant  who  came  to  take 
his  horse,  and  rushed  upstairs  into  his  drawing-room, 
where  his  sister  Mary  was  sitting. 

"  If  there  be  a  devil,"  said  he,  "  a  real  devil  here 
on  earth,  it  is  Dr.  Grantly."  He  vouchsafed  her  no 
further  intelligence,  but  again  seizing  his  hat,  he  rushed 
out,  and  took  his  departure  for  London  without  another 
word  to  any  one. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  warden's  decision. 

The  meeting  between  Eleanor  and  her  father  was 
not  so  stormy  as  that  described  in  the  last  chapter,  but 
it  was  hardly  more  successful.  On  her  return  from 
Bold's  house  she  found  her  father  in  a  strange  state. 
He  was  not  sorrowful  and  silent  as  he  had  been  on 
that  memorable  day  when  his  son-in-law  lectured  him 
as  to  all  that  he  owed  to  his  order ;  nor  was  he  in  his 
usual  quiet  mood.  When  Eleanor  reached  the  hos- 
pital, he  was  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  lawn,  and 
she  soon  saw  that  he  was  much  excited. 

"  I  am  going  to  London,  my  dear,"  he  said  as  soon 
as  he  saw  her. 

"To  London,  papa!" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  to  London ;  I  will  have  this  matter 
settled  in  some  way.  There  are  some  things,  Eleanor, 
which  I  cannot  bear." 

"  Oh,  papa,  what  is  it?  "  said  she,  leading  him  by  the 
arm  into  the  house.  "  I  had  such  good  news  for  you, 
and  now  you  make  me  fear  I  am  too  late."  And 
then,  before  he  could  let  her  know  what  had  caused 
this  sudden  resolve,  or  could  point  to  the  fatal  paper 
which  lay  on  the  table,  she  told  him  that  the  lawsuit 
was  over,  that  Bold  had  commissioned  her  to  assure 
her  father  in  his  name  that  it  would  be  abandoned,— 


THE  warden's  decision.  1 53 

that  there  was  no  further  cause  for  misery,  and  that 
the  whole  matter  might  be  looked  on  as  though  it  had 
never  been  discussed.  She  did  not  tell  him  with  what 
determined  vehemence  she  had  obtained  this  conces- 
sion in  his  favour,  nor  did  she  mention  the  price  she 
was  to  pay  for  it.  The  warden  did  not  express  him- 
self peculiarly  gratified  at  this  inteUigence,  and  Elea- 
nor, though  she  had  not  worked  for  thanks,  and  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  magnify  her  own  good  offices, 
felt  hurt  at  the  manner  in  which  her  news  was  received. 
"  Mr.  Bold  can  act  as  he  thinks  proper,  my  love,"  said 
he ;  "  if  Mr.  Bold  thinks  he  has  been  wrong,  of  course 
he  will  discontinue  what  he  is  doing ;  but  that  cannot 
change  my  purpose." 

"  Oh,  papa!  "  she  exclaimed,  all  but  crying  with  vex- 
ation ;  "  I  thought  you  would  have  been  so  happy ; — 
I  thought  all  would  have  been  right  now." 

"  Mr.  Bold,"  continued  he,  has  set  great  people  to 
work; — so  great  that  I  doubt  they  are  now  beyond 
his  control.  Read  that,  my  dear."  The  warden, 
doubhng  up  a  number  of  the  Jupiter,  pointed  to  the 
peculiar  article  which  she  was  to  read.  It  was  to  the 
last  of  the  three  leaders  which  are  generally  furnished 
daily  for  the  support  of  the  nation  that  Mr.  Harding 
directed  her  attention.  It  dealt  some  heavy  blows  on 
various  clerical  delinquents ;  on  famiHes  who  received 
their  tens  of  thousands  yearly  for  doing  nothing ;  on 
men  who,  as  the  article  stated,  rolled  in  wealth  which 
they  had  neither  earned  nor  inherited,  and  which  was 
in  fact  stolen  from  the  poorer  clergy.  It  named  some 
sons  of  bishops,  and  grandsons  of  archbishops ;  men 
great  in  their  way,  who  had  redeemed  their  disgrace 
in  the  eyes  of  many  by  the  enormity  of  their  plunder; 


154 


THE  WARDEN. 


and  then,  having  disposed  of  these  leviathans,  it  de- 
scended to  Mr.  Harding. 

"We  alluded  some  weeks  since  to  an  instance  of 
similar  injustice,  though  in  a  more  humble  scale,  in 
which  the  warden  of  an  alms-house  at  Barchester  has 
become  possessed  of  the  income  of  the  greater  part  of 
the  whole  institution.  Why  an  alms-house  should  have 
a  warden  we  cannot  pretend  to  explain,  nor  can  we 
say  what  special  need  twelve  old  men  can  have  for  the 
services  of  a  separate  clergyman,  seeing  that  they  have 
twelve  reserved  seats  for  themselves  in  Barchester  Ca- 
thedral. But  be  this  as  it  may,  let  the  gentleman  call 
himself  warden  or  precentor,  or  what  he  will, — let  him 
be  never  so  scrupulous  in  exacting  religious  duties  from 
his  twelve  dependants,  or  never  so  neghgent  as  regards 
the  services  of  the  cathedral, — it  appears  palpably  clear 
that  he  can  be  entitled  to  no  portion  of  the  revenue  of 
the  hospital,  excepting  that  which  the  founder  set  apart 
for  him ;  and  it  is  equally  clear  that  the  founder  did 
not  intend  that  three-fifths  of  his  charity  should  be  so 
consumed. 

"  The  case  is  certainly  a  paltry  one  after  the  tens  of 
thousands  with  which  we  have  been  dealing,  for  the 
warden's  income  is  after  all  but  a  poor  eight  hundred 
a  year.  Eight  hundred  a  year  is  not  magnificent  pre- 
ferment of  itself,  and  the  warden  may,  for  anything  we 
know,  be  worth  much  more  to  the  church.  But  if  so,  let 
the  church  pay  him  out  of  funds  justly  at  its  own  disposal. 

"  We  allude  to  the  question  of  the  Barchester  alms- 
house at  the  present  moment,  because  we  understand 
that  a  plea  has  been  set  up  which  will  be  peculiarly  re- 
volting to  the  minds  of  English  chm"chmen.  An  action 
has  been  taken  against  Mr.  warden  Harding,  on  be- 


THE  warden's  decision.  1 55 

half  of  the  almsmen,  by  a  gentleman  acting  solely  on 
public  grounds,  and  it  is  to  be  argued  that  Mr.  Hard- 
ing takes  nothing  but  what  he  receives  as  a  servant  of 
the  hospital,  and  that  he  is  not  himself  responsible  for 
the  amount  of  stipend  given  to  him  for  his  work.  Such 
a  plea  would  doubtless  be  fair,  if  any  one  questioned 
the  daily  wages  of  a  bricklayer  employed  on  a  build- 
ing, or  the  fee  of  the  charwoman  who  cleans  it ;  but 
we  cannot  envy  the  feeling  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England  who  could  allow  such  an  argument 
to  be  put  in  his  mouth. 

"  If  this  plea  be  put  forward  we  trust  Mr.  Harding 
will  be  forced  as  a  witness  to  state  the  nature  of  his 
employment ;  the  amount  of  work  that  he  does ;  the 
income  which  he  receives ;  and  the  source  from  whence 
he  obtained  his  appointment.  We  do  not  think  he  will 
receive  much  public  sympathy  to  atone  for  the  annoy- 
ance of  such  an  examination." 

As  Eleanor  read  the  article  her  face  flushed  with 
indignation,  and  when  she  had  finished  it,  she  almost 
feared  to  look  up  at  her  father. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  he ;  "  what  do  you  think  of 
that?    Is  it  worth  while  to  be  a  warden  at  that  price?  " 

"  Oh,  papa ; — dear  papa! " 

"  Mr.  Bold  can't  unwrite  that,  my  dear.  Mr.  Bold 
can't  say  that  that  shan't  be  read  by  every  clergyman 
at  Oxford ;  nay,  by  every  gentleman  in  the  land." 
Then  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  while  Eleanor 
in  mute  despair  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  "  And  I  '11 
tell  you  what,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  speaking  now 
very  calmly,  and  in  a  forced  manner  very  unlike  him- 
self ;  "  Mr.  Bold  can't  dispute  the  truth  of  every  word 
in  that  article  you  have  just  read — nor  can  I."  Elea- 


156 


THE  WARDEN. 


nor  stared  at  him,  as  though  she  scarcely  understood 
the  words  he  was  speaking.  "  Nor  can  I,  Eleanor. 
That 's  the  worst  of  all,  or  would  be  so  if  there  were 
no  remedy.  I  have  thought  much  of  all  this  since  we 
were  together  last  night ; "  and  he  came  and  sat  beside 
her,  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  as  he  had  done 
then.  "  I  have  thought  much  of  what  the  archdeacon 
has  said,  and  of  what  this  paper  says  ;  and  I  do  beHeve 
I  have  no  right  to  be  here." 

"  No  right  to  be  warden  of  the  hospital,  papa?  " 

"  No  right  to  be  warden  with  eight  hundred  a  year ; 
— no  right  to  be  warden  with  such  a  house  as  this ; 
no  right  to  spend  in  luxury  money  that  was  intended 
for  charity.  Mr.  Bold  may  do  as  he  pleases  about  his 
suit,  but  I  hope  he  will  not  abandon  it  for  my  sake." 

Poor  Eleanor!  this  was  hard  upon  her.  Was  it  for 
this  she  had  made  her  great  resolve !  For  this  that  she 
had  laid  aside  her  quiet  demeanour,  and  taken  upon 
her  the  rants  of  a  tragedy  heroine!  One  may  work 
and  not  for  thanks, — but  yet  feel  hurt  at  not  receiving 
them ;  and  so  it  was  with  Eleanor.  One  may  be  dis- 
interested in  one's  good  actions,  and  yet  feel  discon- 
tented that  they  are  not  recognised.  Charity  may  be 
given  with  the  left  hand  so  privily  that  the  right  hand 
does  not  know  it,  and  yet  the  left  hand  may  regret  to 
feel  that  it  has  no  immediate  reward.  Eleanor  had  had 
no  wish  to  burden  her  father  with  a  weight  of  obliga- 
tion, and  yet  she  had  looked  forward  to  much  dehght 
from  the  knowledge  that  she  had  freed  him  from  his 
sorrows.  Now  such  hopes  were  entirely  over.  All 
that  she  had  done  was  of  no  avail.  She  had  humbled 
herself  to  Bold  in  vain.  The  evil  v/as  utterly  beyond 
her  power  to  cure ! 


THE  warden's  decision.  1 57 

She  had  thought  also  how  gently  she  would  whisper 
to  her  father  all  that  her  lover  had  said  to  her  about 
herself,  and  how  impossible  she  had  found  it  to  reject 
him.  And  then  she  had  anticipated  her  father's  kindly 
kiss  and  close  embrace  as  he  gave  his  sanction  to  her 
love.  Alas!  she  could  say  nothing  of  this  now.  In 
speaking  of  Mr.  Bold,  her  father  put  him  aside  as  one 
whose  thoughts  and  sayings  and  acts  could  be  of  no 
moment.  Gentle  reader,  did  you  ever  feel  yourself 
snubbed?  Did  you  ever,  when  thinking  much  of  your 
own  importance,  find  yourself  suddenly  reduced  to  a 
nonentity?    Such  was  Eleanor's  feehng  now. 

"  They  shall  not  put  foward  this  plea  on  my  behalf," 
continued  the  warden.  Whatever  may  be  the  truth 
of  the  matter,  that  at  any  rate  is  not  true ;  and  the 
man  who  wrote  that  article  is  right  in  saying  that  such 
a  plea  is  revolting  to  an  honest  mind.  I  will  go  up  to 
London,  my  dear,  and  see  these  lawyers  myself,  and  if 
no  better  excuse  can  be  made  for  me  than  that,  I  and 
the  hospital  will  part." 

"But  the  archdeacon,  papa?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  my  dear ;  there  are  some  things 
which  a  man  cannot  bear.  I  cannot  bear  that ;" — and 
he  put  his  hand  upon  the  newspaper. 

"  But  will  the  archdeacon  go  with  you?  " 

To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Harding  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  steal  a  march  upon  the  archdeacon.  He  was  aware 
that  he  could  take  no  steps  without  informing  his  dread 
son-in-law ;  but  he  had  resolved  that  he  would  send 
out  a  note  to  Plumstead  Episcopi  detaihng  his  plans, 
but  that  the  messenger  should  not  leave  Barchester  till 
he  himself  had  started  for  London ; — so  that  he  might 
be  a  day  before  the  doctor,  who,  he  had  no  doubt, 


THE  WARDEN. 


would  follow  him.  In  that  day,  if  he  had  luck,  he 
might  arrange  it  all.  He  might  explain  to  Sir  Abra- 
ham that  he,  as  warden,  would  have  nothing  further  to 
do  with  the  defence  about  to  be  set  up ;  he  might  send 
in  his  official  resignation  to  his  friend  the  bishop,  and 
so  make  public  the  whole  transaction,  that  even  the 
archdeacon  would  not  be  able  to  undo  what  he  had 
done.  He  knew  too  well  the  archdeacon's  strength 
and  his  own  weakness  to  suppose  he  could  do  this 
if  they  both  reached  London  together.  Indeed,  he 
would  never  be  able  to  get  to  London,  if  the  archdea- 
con knew  of  his  intended  journey  in  time  to  prevent  it. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  he.  "  I  think  I  shall  start 
before  the  archdeacon  could  be  ready.  I  shall  go 
early  to-morrow  morning." 

That  will  be  best,  papa,"  said  Eleanor,  showing 
that  her  father's  ruse  was  appreciated. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  love.  The  fact  is,  I  wish  to  do  all 
this  before  the  archdeacon  can, — can  interfere.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  all  he  says.  He  argues  very 
well,  and  I  can't  always  answer  him ;  but  there  is  an 
old  saying,  Nelly ;  '  Every  one  knows  where  his  own 
shoe  pinches ! '  He  '11  say  that  I  want  moral  courage, 
and  strength  of  character,  and  power  of  endurance, 
and  it 's  all  true ;  but  I 'm  sure  I  ought  not  to  remain 
here,  if  I  have  nothing  better  to  put  forward  than  a 
quibble.  So,  Nelly,  we  shall  have  to  leave  this  pretty 
place." 

Eleanor's  face  brightened  up,  as  she  assured  her 
father  how  cordially  she  agreed  with  him. 

True,  my  love,"  said  he,  now  again  quite  happy  and 
at  ease  in  his  manner.  "  What  good  to  us  is  this  place 
or  all  the  money,  if  we  are  to  be  ill-spoken  of  ?  " 


THE  warden's  decision.  159 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  am  so  glad ! " 

"  My  darling  child.  It  did  cost  me  a  pang  at  first, 
Nelly,  to  think  that  you  should  lose  your  pretty  draw- 
ing-room, and  your  ponies,  and  your  garden.  The 
garden  will  be  the  worst  of  all ; — but  there  is  a  garden 
at  Crab  tree,  a  very  pretty  garden." 

Crabtree  Parva  was  the  name  of  the  small  living 
which  Mr.  Harding  had  held  as  a  minor  canon,  and 
which  still  belonged  to  him.  It  was  only  worth  some 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  a  small  house  and  glebe,  all 
of  which  were  now  handed  over  to  Mr.  Harding's 
curate.  But  it  was  to  Crabtree  glebe  that  Mr.  Hard- 
ing thought  of  retiring.  This  parish  must  not  be  mis- 
taken for  that  other  living,  Crabtree  Canonicorum,  as 
it  is  called.  Crabtree  Canonicorum  is  a  very  nice  thing. 
There  are  only  two  hundred  parishioners ;  there  are 
four  hundred  acres  of  glebe ;  and  the  great  and  small 
tithes,  which  both  go  to  the  rector,  are  worth  four  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  more.  Crabtree  Canonicorum  is 
in  the  gift  of  the  dean  and  chapter,  and  is  at  this  time 
possessed  by  the  Honourable  and  Reverend  Dr.  Vesey 
Stanhope,  who  also  fills  the  prebendal  stall  of  Goose- 
gorge  in.Barchester  Chapter,  and  holds  the  united  rec- 
tory of  Eiderdown  and  Stogpingum,  or  Stoke  Pinquium, 
as  it  should  be  written.  This  is  the  same  Dr.  Vesey 
Stanhope,  whose  hospitable  villa  on  the  Lake  of  Como 
is  so  well  known  to  the  elite  of  English  travellers,  and 
whose  collection  of  Lombard  butterflies  is  supposed  to 
be  unique. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  warden,  musing,  "  there  is  a  very 
pretty  garden  at  Crabtree ;  but  I  shall  be  sorry  to  dis- 
turb poor  Smith."  Smith  was  the  curate  of  Crabtree, 
a  gentleman  who  was  maintaining  a  wife  and  half  a 


i6o 


THE  WARDEN. 


dozen  children  on  the  income  arising  from  his  pro- 
fession. 

Eleanor  assured  her  father  that,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  she  could  leave  her  house  and  her  ponies 
without  a  single  regret.  She  was  only  so  happy  that 
he  was  going, — going  where  he  v/ould  escape  all  this 
dreadful  turmoil. 

"  But  we  will  take  the  music,  my  dear." 

And  so  they  went  on  planning  their  future  happi- 
ness, and  plotting  how  they  would  arrange  it  all  with- 
out the  interposition  of  the  archdeacon.  At  last  they 
again  became  confidential,  and  then  the  warden  did 
thank  her  for  what  she  had  done,  and  Eleanor,  lying 
on  her  father's  shoulder,  did  find  an  opportunity  to  tell 
her  secret.  And  the  father  gave  his  blessing  to  his 
child,  and  said  that  the  man  whom  she  loved  was  hon- 
est, good,  and  kind-hearted,  and  right-thinking  in  the 
main ; — one  who  wanted  only  a  good  wife  to  put  him 
quite  upright ; — a  man,  my  love,"  he  ended  by  saying, 
"  to  whom  I  firmly  believe  that  I  can  trust  my  treasure 
with  safety." 

"  But  what  will  Dr.  Grantly  say?  " 

*'Well,  my  dear,  it  can't  be  helped.  We  shall  be 
out  at  Crabtree  then." 

And  Eleanor  ran  upstairs  to  prepare  her  father's 
clothes  for  his  journey ;  and  the  warden  returned  to 
his  garden  to  make  his  last  adieus  to  every  tree,  and 
shrub,  and  shady  nook  that  he  knew  so  well. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


<^]j\IOUNT  OLYMPUS. 

Wretched  in  spirit,  groaning  under  the  feeling  of 
the  insult,  self-condemning,  and  ill-satisfied  in  every 
way.  Bold  returned  to  his  London  lodgings.  Ill  as  he 
had  fared  in  his  interview  with  the  archdeacon,  he  was 
not  the  less  under  the  necessity  of  carrying  out  his 
pledge  to  Eleanor ;  and  he  went  about  his  ungracious 
task  with  a  heavy  heart. 

The  attorneys  whom  he  had  employed  in  London 
received  his  instructions  with  surprise  and  evident  mis- 
giving; however,  they  could  only  obey,  and  mutter 
something  of  their  sorrow  that  such  heavy  costs  should 
only  fall  upon  their  own  employer, — especially  as  noth- 
ing was  wanting  but  perseverance  to  throw  them  on  the 
opposite  party.  Bold  left  the  office  which  he  had  lat- 
terly so  much  frequented,  shaking  the  dust  from  off  his 
feet ;  and  before  he  was  down  the  stairs,  an  edict  had 
already  gone  forth  for  the  preparation  of  the  bill. 

He  next  thought  of  the  newspapers.  The  case  had 
been  taken  up  by  more  than  one ;  and  he  was  well 
aware  that  the  key  note  had  been  sounded  by  the  Ju- 
piter. He  had  been  very  intimate  with  Tom  Towers, 
and  had  often  discussed  with  him  the  affairs  of  the  hos- 
pital. Bold  could  not  say  that  the  articles  in  that  paper 
had  been  written  at  his  own  instigation.  He  did  not 
n 


l62 


THE  WARDEN. 


even  Icnow  as  a  fact  that  they  had  been  written  by  his 
friend.  Tom  Towers  had  never  said  that  such  a  view 
of  the  case,  or  such  a  side  in  the  dispute,  would  be 
taken  by  the  paper  with  which  he  was  connected. 
Very  discreet  in  such  matters  was  Tom  Towers,  and 
altogether  indisposed  to  talk  loosely  of  the  concerns  of 
that  mighty  engine  of  which  it  was  his  high  privilege 
to  move  in  secret  some  portion.  Nevertheless  Bold 
believed  that  to  him  were  owing  those  dreadful  words 
which  had  caused  such  panic  at  Barchester, — and  he 
conceived  himself  bound  to  prevent  their  repetition. 
With  this  view  he  betook  himself  from  the  attorneys' 
office  to  that  laboratory  where,  with  amazing  chemistry, 
Tom  Towers  compounded  thunderbolts  for  the  de- 
struction of  all  that  is  evil,  and  for  the  furtherance  of 
all  that  is  good,  in  this  and  other  hemispheres. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Mount  Olympus, — that  high 
abode  of  all  the  powers  of  type,  that  favoured  seat  of 
the  great  goddess  Pica,  that  wondrous  habitation  of 
gods  and  devils,  from  whence,  with  ceaseless  hum  of 
steam  and  never-ending  flow  of  Castalian  ink,  issue 
forth  eighty  thousand  nightly  edicts  for  the  governance 
of  a  subject  nation? 

Velvet  and  gilding  do  not  make  a  throne,  nor  gold 
and  jewels  a  sceptre.  It  is  a  throne  because  the  most 
exalted  one  sits  there ; — and  a  sceptre  because  the  most 
mighty  one  wields  it.  So  it  is  with  Mount  Olympus. 
Should  a  stranger  make  his  way  thither  at  dull  noon- 
day, or  during  the  sleepy  hours  of  the  silent  afternoon, 
he  would  find  no  acknowledged  temple  of  power  and 
beauty,  no  fitting  fane  for  the  great  Thunderer,  no 
proud  fagades  and  pillared  roofs  to  support  the  dignity 
of  this  greatest  of  earthly  potentates.    To  the  outward 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS. 


163 


and  uninitiated  eye,  Mount  Olympus  is  a  somewhat 
humble  spot, — undistinguished,  unadorned, — nay,  al- 
most mean.  It  stands  alone,  as  it  were,  in  a  mighty  city, 
close  to  the  densest  throng  of  men,  but  partaking  neither 
of  the  noise  nor  the  crowd ;  a  small  secluded,  dreary 
spot,  tenanted,  one  would  say,  by  quite  unambitious 
people,  at  the  easiest  rents.  '  Is  this  Mount  Olympus?  ' 
asks  the  unbelieving  stranger.  *  Is  it  from  these  small, 
'dark,  dingy  buildings  that  those  infallible  laws  pro- 
'  ceed  which  cabinets  are  called  upon  to  obey  ;  by  which 
'bishops  are  to  be  guided,  lords  and  commons  con- 
'  trolled, — judges  instructed  in  law,  generals  in  strategy, 
'admirals  in  naval  tactics,  and  orange-women  in  the 
'management  of  their  barrows?'  'Yes,  my  friend — 
'  from  these  walls.  From  here  issue  the  only  known 
'infallible  bulls  for  the  guidance  of  British  souls  and 
'  bodies.  This  little  court  is  the  Vatican  of  England. 
'  Here  reigns  a  pope,  self-nominated,  self-consecrated, 
' — ay,  and  much  stranger  too, — self -believing! — a 
'  pope  whom,  if  you  cannot  obey  him,  I  would  advise 
'  you  to  disobey  as  silently  as  possible ;  a  pope  hith- 
'  erto  afraid  of  no  Luther ;  a  pope  who  manages  his 
'  own  inquisition,  who  punishes  unbelievers  as  no  most 
'  skilful  inquisitor  of  Spain  ever  dreamt  of  doing ; — one 
'  who  can  excommunicate  thoroughly,  fearfully,  radi- 
'cally;  put  you  beyond  the  pale  of  men's  charity; 
'make  you  odious  to  your  dearest  friends,  and  turn 
'you  into  a  monster  to  be  pointed  at  by  the  finger  J' 

Oh  heavens!  and  this  is  Mount  Olympus! 

It  is  a  fact  amazing  to  ordinary  mortals  that  the  Ju- 
piter is  never  wrong.  With  what  endless  care,  with 
what  unsparing  labour,  do  we  not  strive  to  get  together 
for  our  great  national  council  the  men  most  fitting  to 


THE  WARDEN. 


compose  it.  And  how  we  fail!  Parliament  is  always 
wrong.  Look  at  the  Jupiter,  and  see  how  futile  are 
their  meetings,  how  vain  their  council,  how  needless 
all  their  trouble !  With  what  pride  do  we  regard  our 
chief  ministers,  the  great  servants  of  state,  the  oligarchs 
of  the  nation  on  whose  wisdom  we  lean,  to  whom  we 
look  for  guidance  in  our  difficulties!  But  what  are 
they  to  the  writers  of  the  Jupiter?  They  hold  council 
together  and  with  anxious  thought  painfully  elaborate 
their  country's  good  ;  but  when  all  is  done,  the  Jupiter 
declares  that  all  is  nought.  Why  should  we  look  to 
Lord  John  Russell ; — why  should  we  regard  Palmerston 
and  Gladstone,  when  Tom  Towers  without  a  struggle 
can  put  us  right?  Look  at  our  generals,  what  faults 
they  make; — at  our  admirals,  how  inactive  they  are. 
What  money,  honesty,  and  science  can  do,  is  done  ; 
and  yet  how  badly  are  our  troops  brought  together, 
fed,  conveyed,  clothed,  armed,  and  managed.  The 
most  excellent  of  our  good  men  do  their  best  to  man 
our  ships,  with  the  assistance  of  all  possible  external 
appliances ;  but  in  vain.  All,  all  is  wrong !  Alas ! 
alas!  Tom  Towers,  and  he  alone,  knows  all  about  it. 
Why,  oh  why,  ye  earthly  ministers,  why  have  ye  not 
followed  more  closely  this  heaven-sent  messenger  that 
is  among  us? 

Were  it  not  well  for  us  in  our  ignorance  that  we 
confided  all  things  to  the  Jupiter?  Would  it  not  be 
wise  in  us  to  abandon  useless  talking,  idle  thinking,  and 
profitless  labour?  Away  with  majorities  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  with  verdicts  from  judicial  bench  given 
after  much  delay,  with  doubtful  laws,  and  the  fallible 
attempts  of  humanity!  Does  not  the  Jupiter,  coming 
forth  daily  with  eighty  thousand  impressions  full  of 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS. 


165 


unerring  decision  on  every  mortal  subject,  set  all  mat- 
ters sufficiently  at  rest?  Is  not  Tom  Towers  here,  able 
to  guide  us  and  willing? 

Yes  indeed, — able  and  willing  to  guide  all  men  in  all 
things,  so  long  as  he  is  obeyed  as  autocrat  should  be 
obeyed — with  undoubting  submission  !  Only  let  not 
ungrateful  ministers  seek  other  colleagues  than  those 
whom  Tom  Towers  may  approve;  let  church  and 
state,  law  and  physic,  commerce  and  agriculture, — the 
arts  of  war,  and  the  arts  of  peace,  all  listen  and  obey, 
and  all  will  be  made  perfect.  Has  not  Tom  Towers 
an  all-seeing  eye?  From  the  diggings  of  Australia  to 
those  of  California,  right  round  the  habitable  globe, 
does  he  not  know,  watch,  and  chronicle  the  doings  of 
every  one?  From  a  bishopric  in  New  Zealand  to  an 
unfortunate  director  of  a  Northwest  passage,  is  he  not 
the  only  fit  judge  of  capability?  From  the  sewers  of 
London  to  the  Central  Railway  of  India, — from  the 
palaces  of  St.  Petersburg  to  the  cabins  of  Connaught, 
nothing  can  escape  him.  Britons  have  but  to  read, 
obey,  and  be  blessed.  None  but  the  fools  doubt  the 
wisdom  of  the  Jupiter.  None  but  the  mad  dispute  its 
facts. 

No  estabhshed  rehgion  has  ever  been  without  its  un- 
behevers,  even  in  the  country  where  it  is  the  most 
firmly  fixed ;  no  creed  has  been  without  scoffers ;  no 
church  has  so  prospered  as  to  free  itself  entirely  from 
dissent.  There  are  those  who  doubt  the  Jupiter! 
They  live  and  breathe  the  upper  air,  walking  here  un- 
scathed, though  scorned, — men,  bom  of  British  mothers 
and  nursed  on  English  milk,  who  scruple  not  to  say 
that  Mount  Olympus  has  its  price,  that  Tom  Towers 
can  be  bought  for  gold! 


i66 


THE  WARDEN. 


Such  is  Mount  Olympus,  the  mouthpiece  of  all  the 
wisdom  of  this  great  country.  It  may  probably  be 
said  that  no  place  in  this  19th  century  is  more  worthy 
-of  notice.  No  treasury  mandate  armed  with  the  signa- 
tures of  all  the  government  has  half  the  power  of  one 
of  those  broad  sheets,  which  fly  forth  from  hence  so 
abundantly,  armed  vv^ith  no  signature  at  all. 

Some  great  man,  some  mighty  peer, — we  '11  say  a 
noble  duke, — retires  to  rest  feared  and  honoured  by  all 
his  countrymen, — fearless  himself ;  if  not  a  good  man, 
at  any  rate  a  mighty  man, — too  mighty  to  care  much 
what  men  may  say  about  his  want  of  virtue.  He  rises 
in  the  morning  degraded,  mean,  and  miserable  ;  an  ob- 
ject of  men's  scorn,  anxious  only  to  retire  as  quickly 
as  may  be  to  some  German  obscurity,  some  unseen 
Itahan  privacy,  or,  indeed,  anywhere  out  of  sight. 
What  has  made  this  awful  change?  What  has  so  af- 
flicted him?  An  article  has  appeared  in  the  Jupiter; 
some  fifty  lines  of  a  naiTOW  column  have  destroyed  all 
his  grace's  equanimity,  and  banished  him  for  ever  from 
the  world.  No  man  knows  who  wrote  the  bitter  words ; 
the  clubs  talk  confusedly  of  the  matter,  whispering  to 
each  other  this  and  that  name ;  while  Tom  Towers 
walks  quietly  along  Pall  Mall,  with  his  coat  buttoned 
close  against  the  east  wind,  as  though  he  were  a  mor- 
tal man,  and  not  a  god  dispensing  thunderbolts  from 
Mount  Olympus. 

It  was  not  to  Mount  Olympus  that  our  friend  Bold 
betook  himself.  He  had  before  now  wandered  round 
that  lonely  spot,  thinking  how  grand  a  thing  it  was  to 
write  articles  for  the  Jupiter ;  considering  within  him- 
self whether  by  any  stretch  of  the  powers  within  him 
he  could  ever  come  to  such  distinction;  wondering 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS. 


167 


how  Tom  Towers  would  take  any  little  humble  offer- 
ing of  his  talents ;  calculating  that  Tom  Towers  him- 
self must  have  once  had  a  beginning,  have  once  doubted 
as  to  his  own  success.  Towers  could  not  have  been 
bom  a  writer  in  the  Jupiter.  With  such  ideas,  half 
ambitious  and  half  awe-struck,  had  Bold  regarded  the 
silent-looking  workshop  of  the  gods ;  but  he  had  never 
yet  by  word  or  sign  attempted  to  influence  the  slightest 
word  of  his  unerring  friend.  On  such  a  course  was  he 
now  intent ;  and  not  without  much  inward  palpitation 
did  he  betake  himself  to  the  quiet  abode  of  wisdom, 
where  Tom  Towers  was  to  be  found  o'  mornings  inhal- 
ing ambrosia  and  sipping  nectar  in  the  shape  of  toast 
and  tea. 

Not  far  removed  from  Mount  Olympus,  but  some- 
what nearer  to  the  blessed  regions  of  the  West,  is  the 
most  favoured  abode  of  Themis.  Washed  by  the  rich 
tide  which  now  passes  from  the  towers  of  Caesar  to 
Barry's  halls  of  eloquence ;  and  again  back,  with  new 
offerings  of  a  city's  tribute,  from  the  palaces  of  peers 
to  the  mart  of  merchants,  stand  those  quiet  walls  which 
Law  has  deHghted  to  honour  by  its  presence.  What 
a  world  within  a  world  is  the  Temple !  how  quiet  are 
its  "  entangled  walks,"  as  some  one  lately  has  called 
them,  and  yet  how  close  to  the  densest  concourse  of 
humanity!  how  gravely  respectable  its  sober  alleys, 
though  removed  but  by  a  single  step  from  the  profanity 
of  the  Strand  and  the  low  iniquity  of  Fleet  Street! 
Old  St.  Dunstan,  with  its  bell-smiting  bludgeoners,  has 
been  removed ;  the  ancient  shops  with  their  faces  full 
of  pleasant  history  are  passing  away  one  by  one ;  the 
bar  itself  is  to  go ;  its  doom  has  been  pronounced  by 
the  Jupiter;  rumour  tells  us  of  some  huge  building 


i68 


THE  WARDEN. 


that  is  to  appear  in  these  latitudes  dedicated  to  law, 
subversive  of  the  courts  of  Westminster,  and  antago- 
nistic to  the  Rolls  and  Lincoln's  Inn.  But  nothing 
yet  threatens  the  silent  beauty  of  the  Temple.  It  is 
the  mediaeval  court  of  the  metropolis. 

Here,  on  the  choicest  spot  of  this  choice  ground, 
stands  a  lofty  row  of  chambers,  looking  obliquely  upon 
the  sullied  Thames.  Before  the  windows,  the  lawn  of 
the  Temple  Gardens  stretches  with  that  dim  yet  deli- 
cious verdure  so  refreshing  to  the  eyes  of  Londoners. 
If  doomed  to  live  within  the  thickest  of  London  smoke 
you  would  surely  say  that  that  would  be  your  chosen 
spot.  Yes,  you,  you  whom  I  now  address,  my  dear, 
middle-aged  bachelor  friend,  can  nowhere  be  so  well 
domiciled  as  here.  No  one  here  will  ask  whether  you 
are  out  or  at  home ;  alone  or  with  friends.  Here  no 
Sabbatarian  will  investigate  your  Sundays,  no  censori- 
ous landlady  will  scrutinise  your  empty  bottle,  no  vale- 
tudinarian neighbour  will  complain  of  late  hours.  If 
you  love  books,  to  what  place  are  books  so  suitable? 
The  whole  spot  is  redolent  of  typography.  Would  you 
worship  the  Paphian  goddess,  the  groves  of  Cyprus  are 
not  more  taciturn  than  those  of  the  Temple.  Wit 
and  wine  are  always  here,  and  always  together.  The 
revels  of  the  Temple  are  as  those  of  poHshed  Greece, 
where  the  wildest  worshipper  of  Bacchus  never  forgot 
the  dignity  of  the  god  whom  he  adored.  Where  can 
retirement  be  so  complete  as  here?  Where  can  you 
be  so  sure  of  all  the  pleasures  of  society? 

It  was  here  that  Tom  Towers  lived,  and  cultivated 
with  eminent  success  the  tenth  Muse  who  now  governs 
the  periodical  press.  But  let  it  not  be  supposed  that 
his  chambers  were  such,  or  so  comfortless,  as  are 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS. 


169 


frequently  the  gaunt  abodes  of  legal  aspirants.  Four 
chairs,  a  half-filled  deal  book-case  with  hangings  of 
dingy  green  baize,  an  old  office  table  covered  with  dusty 
papers,  which  are  not  moved  once  in  six  months,  and 
an  old  Pembroke  brother  with  rickety  legs,  for  all  daily 
uses  ; — a  despatcher  for  the  preparation  of  lobsters  and 
coffee,  and  an  apparatus  for  the  cooking  of  toast  and 
mutton  chops ;  such  utensils  and  luxuries  as  these  did 
not  suffice  for  the  well-being  of  Tom  Towers.  He  in- 
dulged in  four  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  each  of  which 
was  furnished,  if  not  with  the  splendour,  with  probably 
more  than  the  comfort  of  Stafford  House.  Every  ad- 
dition that  science  and  art  have  lately  made  to  the 
luxuries  of  modem  life  was  to  be  found  there.  The 
room  in  which  he  usually  sat  was  surrounded  by  book- 
shelves carefully  filled ;  nor  was  there  a  volume  there 
which  was  not  entitled  to  its  place  in  such  a  collection, 
both  by  its  intrinsic  worth  and  exterior  splendour.  A 
pretty  portable  set  of  steps  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
showed  that  those  even  on  the  higher  shelves  were  in* 
tended  for  use.  The  chamber  contained  but  two  works 
of  art ; — the  one,  an  admirable  bust  of  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
by  Power,  declared  the  individual  pohtics  of  our  friend ; 
and  the  other,  a  singularly  long  figure  of  a  female  dev- 
otee, by  Millais,  told  equally  plainly  the  school  of  art 
to  which  he  was  addicted.  This  picture  was  not  hung, 
as  pictures  usually  are,  against  the  wall.  There  was 
no  inch  of  wall  vacant  for  such  a  purpose.  It  had  a 
stand  or  desk  erected  for  its  own  accommodation  ;  and 
there  on  her  pedestal,  framed  and  glazed,  stood  the 
devotional  lady  looking  intently  at  a  lily  as  no  lady 
ever  looked  before. 

Our  modern  artists,  whom  we  style  Prae-Raffaellites, 


170 


THE  WARDEN. 


have  delighted  to  go  back,  not  only  to  the  finish  and 
pecuHar  manner,  but  also  to  the  subjects  of  the  early 
painters.  It  is  impossible  to  give  them  too  much 
praise  for  the  elaborate  perseverance  with  which  they 
have  equalled  the  minute  perfections  of  the  masters 
from  whom  they  take  their  inspiration.  Nothing  prob- 
ably can  exceed  the  painting  of  some  of  these  latter- 
day  pictures.  It  is,  however,  singular  into  what  faults 
they  fall  as  regards  their  subjects.  They  are  not  quite 
content  to  take  the  old  stock  groups, — a  Sebastian 
with  his  arrows,  a  Lucia  with  her  eyes  in  a  dish,  a 
Lorenzo  with  a  gridiron,  or  the  virgin  with  two  chil- 
dren. But  they  are  anything  but  happy  in  their  change. 
As  a  rule,  no  figure  should  be  drawn  in  a  position  which 
it  is  impossible  to  suppose  any  figure  should  maintain. 
The  patient  endurance  of  St.  Sebastian,  the  wild  ecstasy 
of  St.  John  in  the  Wilderness,  the  maternal  love  of  the 
virgin,  are  feelings  naturally  portrayed  by  a  fixed  pos- 
ture ;  but  the  lady  with  the  stiff  back  and  bent  neck, 
who  looks  at  her  flower,  and  is  still  looking  from  hour 
to  hour,  gives  us  an  idea  of  pain  without  grace,  and  ab- 
straction without  a  cause. 

It  was  easy,  from  his  rooms,  to  see  that  Tom  Tow- 
ers was  a  Sybarite,  though  by  no  means  an  idle  one. 
He  was  lingering  over  his  last  cup  of  tea,  surrounded 
by  an  ocean  of  newspapers,  through  which  he  had  been 
swimming,  when  John  Bold's  card  was  brought  in  by 
his  tiger.  This  tiger  never  knew  that  his  master  was 
at  home,  though  he  often  knew  that  he  was  not,  and 
thus  Tom  Towers  was  never  invaded  but  by  his  own 
consent.  On  this  occasion,  after  twisting  the  card 
twice  in  his  fingers,  he  signified  to  his  attendant  imp 


MOUNT  OLYMPUS. 


171 


that  he  was  visible ;  and  the  inner  door  was  unbolted, 
and  our  friend  announced. 

I  have  before  said  that  he  of  the  Jupiter  and  John 
Bold  were  intimate.  There  was  no  very  great  difference 
in  their  ages,  for  Towers  was  still  considerably  under 
forty  ;  and  when  Bold  had  been  attending  the  London 
hospitals,  Towers,  who  was  not  then  the  great  man 
that  he  had  since  become,  had  been  much  with  him. 
Then  they  had  often  discussed  together  the  objects  of 
their  ambition  and  future  prospects.  Then  Tom  Tow- 
ers was  strugghng  hard  to  maintain  himself,  as  a  brief- 
less barrister,  by  short-hand  reporting  for  any  of  the 
papers  that  would  engage  him ;  then  he  had  not  dared 
to  dream  of  writing  leaders  for  the  Jupiter,  or  canvas- 
sing the  conduct  of  Cabinet  ministers.  Things  had 
altered  since  that  time.  The  briefless  barrister  was  still 
briefless,  but  he  now  despised  briefs.  Could  he  have 
been  siu-e  of  a  judge's  seat,  he  would  hardly  have  left 
his  present  career.  It  is  true  he  wore  no  ermine,  bore 
no  outward  marks  of  a  world's  respect ;  but  with  what 
a  load  of  inward  importance  was  he  charged!  It  is 
true  his  name  appeared  in  no  large  capitals;  on  no 
wall  was  chalked  up  "  Tom  Towers  for  ever ;" — Free- 
dom of  the  Press  and  Tom  Towers;"  but  what  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  had  half  his  power?  It  is  true  that 
in  far-off  provinces  men  did  not  talk  daily  of  Tom 
Towers,  but  they  read  the  Jupiter,  and  acknowledged 
that  without  the  Jupiter  hfe  was  not  worth  having. 
This  kind  of  hidden  but  still  conscious  glory  suited  the 
nature  of  the  man.  He  loved  to  sit  silent  in  a  corner 
of  his  club  and  listen  to  the  loud  chattering  of  politi- 
cians, and  to  think  how  they  all  were  in  his  power; — 


172 


THE  WARDEN. 


how  he  could  smite  the  loudest  of  them,  were  it  worth 
his  while  to  raise  his  pen  for  such  a  purpose.  He 
loved  to  watch  the  great  men  of  whom  he  daily  wrote, 
and  flatter  himself  that  he  was  greater  than  any  of 
them.  Each  of  them  was  responsible  to  his  country, 
each  of  them  must  answer  if  inquired  into,  each  of 
them  must  endure  abuse  with  good  humour,  and  inso- 
lence without  anger.  But  to  whom  was  he,  Tom  Tow- 
ers, responsible  ?  No  one  could  insult  him ;  no  one 
could  inquire  into  him.  He  could  speak  out  wither- 
ing words,  and  no  one  could  answer  him.  Ministers 
courted  him,  though  perhaps  they  knew  not  his  name ; 
bishops  feared  him ;  judges  doubted  their  own  verdicts 
unless  he  confirmed  them ;  and  generals,  in  their  coun- 
cils of  war,  did  not  consider  more  deeply  what  the 
enemy  would  do,  than  what  the  Jupiter  would  say. 
Tom  Towers  never  boasted  of  the  Jupiter ;  he  scarcely 
ever  named  the  paper  even  to  the  most  intimate  of  his 
friends ;  he  did  not  even  wish  to  be  spoken  of  as  con- 
nected with  it ;  but  he  did  not  the  less  value  his  priv- 
ileges, or  think  the  less  of  his  own  importance.  It  is 
probable  that  Tom  Towers  considered  himself  the  most 
powerful  man  in  Europe ;  and  so  he  walked  on  from 
day  to  day,  studiously  striving  to  look  a  man,  but  know- 
ing within  his  breast  that  he  was  a  god. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


TOM  TOWERS,  DR.  ANTICANT,  AND  MR.  SENTIMENT. 

^'Ah,  Bold!  how  are  you?  You  have  n't  break- 
fasted?" 

"  Oh  yes,  hours  ago.    And  how  are  you?  " 

When  one  Esquimau  meets  another,  do  the  two,  as 
an  invariable  rule,  ask  after  each  other's  health?  Is 
it  inherent  in  all  human  nature  to  make  this  obliging 
inquiry?  Did  any  reader  of  this  tale  ever  meet  any 
friend  or  acquaintance  without  asking  some  such 
question,  and  did  any  one  ever  listen  to  the  reply? 
Sometimes  a  studiously  courteous  questioner  will  show 
so  much  thought  in  the  matter  as  to  answer  it  himself, 
by  declaring  that  had  he  looked  at  you  he  need  n't 
have  asked ;  meaning  thereby  to  signify  that  you  are 
an  absolute  personification  of  health.  But  such  per- 
sons are  only  those  who  premeditate  small  effects. 

"  I  suppose  you  're  busy?  "  inquired  Bold. 

"  Why,  yes,  rather ; — or  I  should  say  rather  not.  If 
I  have  a  leisure  hour  in  the  day,  this  is  it." 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  can  oblige  me  in  a  cer- 
tain matter." 

Towers  understood  in  a  moment,  from  the  tone  of 
his  friend's  voice,  that  the  certain  matter  referred  to 
the  newspaper.  He  smiled,  and  nodded  his  head,  but 
made  no  promise. 


174 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  You  know  this  lawsuit  that  I 've  been  engaged  in," 
said  Bold. 

Tom  Towers  intimated  that  he  was  aware  of  the 
action  which  was  pending  about  the  hospital 
"  Well,  I 've  abandoned  it." 

Tom  Towers  merely  raised  his  eyebrows,  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  and  waited  for  his 
friend  to  proceed. 

"  Yes,  I 've  given  it  up.  I  need  n't  trouble  you  with 
all  the  history ;  but  the  fact  is  that  the  conduct  of  Mr. 

Harding — .    Mr.  Harding  is  the  ." 

Oh  yes,  the  master  of  the  place ;  the  man  who 
takes  all  the  money  and  does  nothing,"  said  Tom  Tow- 
ers, interrupting  him. 

"  Well ;  I  don't  know  about  that ;  but  his  conduct 
in  the  matter  has  been  so  excellent,  so  Httle  selfish,  so 
open,  that  I  cannot  proceed  in  the  matter  to  his  detri- 
ment." Bold's  heart  misgave  him  as  to  Eleanor  as  he 
said  this ;  and  yet  he  felt  that  what  he  said  was  not 
untrue.  "  I  think  nothing  should  now  be  done  till  the 
wardenship  be  vacant." 

"  And  be  again  filled,"  said  Towers,  "  as  it  certainly 
would,  before  any  one  heard  of  the  vacancy ;  and  the 
same  objection  would  again  exist.  It 's  an  old  story 
that  of  the  vested  rights  of  the  incumbent ;  but  sup- 
pose the  incumbent  has  only  a  vested  wrong,  and  that 
the  poor  of  the  town  have  a  vested  right,  if  they  only 
knew  how  to  get  at  it!  Is  not  that  something  the  case 
here?  " 

Bold  could  not  deny  it,  but  thought  it  was  one  of 
those  cases  which  required  a  good  deal  of  management 
before  any  real  good  could  be  done.  It  was  a  pity 
that  he  had  not  considered  this  before  he  crept  into  the 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS. 


lion's  mouth,  in  the  shape  of  an  attorney's  office.  "  It 
will  cost  you  a  good  deal,  I  fear,"  said  Towers. 

"A  few  hundreds,"  said  Bold — "perhaps  three  hun- 
dred.   I  can't  help  that,  and  am  prepared  for  it." 

"  That 's  philosophical.  It 's  quite  refreshing  to  hear 
a  man  talking  of  his  hundreds  in  so  purely  indifferent 
a  manner.  But  I 'm  sorry  you  are  giving  the  matter 
up.  It  injures  a  man  to  commence  a  thing  of  this 
kind,  and  not  carry  it  through.  Have  you  seen  that?  " 
and  he  threw  a  small  pamphlet  across  the  table,  which 
was  all  but  damp  from  the  press. 

Bold  had  not  seen  it  nor  heard  of  it ;  but  he  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  author  of  it, — a  gentleman  whose 
pamphlets,  condemnatory  of  all  things  in  these  modern 
days,  had  been  a  good  deal  talked  about  of  late. 

Dr.  Pessimist  Anticant  was  a  Scotchman  who  had 
passed  a  great  portion  of  his  early  days  in  Germany ; 
he  had  studied  there  with  much  effect,  and  had  learnt 
to  look  with  German  subtilty  into  the  root  of  things, 
and  to  examine  for  himself  their  intrinsic  worth  and 
worthlessness.  No  man  ever  resolved  more  bravely 
than  he  to  accept  as  good  nothing  that  was  evil ;  to 
banish  from  him  as  evil  nothing  that  was  good.  'T  is 
a  pity  that  he  should  not  have  recognised  the  fact, 
that  in  this  world  no  good  is  unalloyed,  and  that  there 
is  but  httle  evil  that  has  not  in  it  some  seed  of  what  is 
goodly. 

Returning  from  Germany,  he  had  astonished  the 
reading  pubHc  by  the  vigour  of  his  thoughts,  put  forth 
in  the  quaintest  language.  He  cannot  write  English, 
said  the  critics.  No  matter,  said  the  public.  We  can 
read  what  he  does  write,  and  that  without  yawning. 
And  so  Dr.  Pessimist  Anticant  became  popular.  Pop- 


176 


THE  WARDEN. 


ularity  spoilt  him  for  all  further  real  use,  as  it  has  done 
many  another.  While,  with  some  diffidence,  he  con- 
fined his  objurgations  to  the  occasional  follies  or  short- 
comings of  mankind ;  while  he  ridiculed  the  energy  of 
the  squire  devoted  to  the  slaughter  of  partridges,  or  the 
mistake  of  some  noble  patron  who  turned  a  poet  into 
a  ganger  of  beer-barrels,  it  was  all  well.  We  were  glad 
to  be  told  our  faults  and  to  look  forward  to  the  coming 
millennium,  when  all  men,  having  sufficiently  studied 
the  works  of  Dr.  Anticant,  would  become  truthful  and 
energetic.  But  the  doctor  mistook  the  signs  of  the 
times  and  the  minds  of  men,  instituted  himself  censor 
of  things  in  general,  and  began  the  great  task  of  rep- 
robating everything  and  everybody,  without  further 
promise  of  any  millennium  at  all.  This  was  not  so 
well ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  our  author  did  not  succeed 
in  his  undertaking.  His  theories  were  all  beautiful, 
and  the  code  of  morals  that  he  taught  us  was  certainly 
an  improvement  on  the  practices  of  the  age.  We  all 
of  us  could,  and  many  of  us  did,  learn  much  from  the 
doctor  while  he  chose  to  remain  vague,  mysterious,  and 
cloudy.  But  when  he  became  practical,  the  charm  was 
gone. 

His  allusion  to  the  poet  and  the  partridges  was  re- 
ceived very  well.  *  Oh,  my  poor  brother,'  said  he, 
'  slaughtered  partridges  a  score  of  brace  to  each  gun, 
'and  poets  gauging  ale-barrels,  with  sixty  pounds  a 
'  year,  at  Dumfries,  are  not  the  signs  of  a  great  era !  — 
'perhaps  of  the  smallest  possible  era  yet  written  of. 

*  Whatever  economies  we  pursue,  pohtical  or  other,  let 

*  us  see  at  once  that  this  is  the  maddest  of  the  uneco- 
'nomic.    Partridges  killed  by  our  land  magnates  at, 

*  shall  we  say,  a  guinea  a  head,  to  be  retailed  in  Lead- 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS. 


'  enhall  at  one  shilling  and  ninepence,  with  one  poacher 
'  in  Hmbo  for  every  fifty  birds !  our  poet,  maker,  crea- 
'  tor,  gauging  ale,  and  that  badly,  with  no  leisure  for 
'  making  or  creating ; — only  a  little  leisure  for  drinking, 
'  and  such  like  beer-barrel  avocations !  Truly,  a  cutting 
'  of  blocks  with  fine  razors  while  we  scrape  our  chins 
'  so  uncomfortably  with  rusty  knives !  Oh,  my  poHtical 
'  economist,  master  of  supply  and  demand,  division  of 
'labour  and  high  pressure, — oh,  my  loud-speaking 
'  friend,  tell  me,  if  so  much  be  in  you,  what  is  the  de- 
'  mand  for  poets  in  these  kingdoms  of  Queen  Victoria, 

*  and  what  the  vouchsafed  supply  ?  ' 

This  was  all  very  well.  This  gave  us  some  hope. 
We  might  do  better  with  our  next  poet,  when  we  got 
one ;  and  though  the  partridges  might  not  be  aban- 
doned, something  could  perhaps  be  done  as  to  the 
poachers.  We  were  unwilling,  however,  to  take  lessons 
in  pohtics  from  so  misty  a  professor;  and  when  he 
came  to  tell  us  that  the  heroes  of  Westminster  were 
naught,  we  began  to  think  that  he  had  written  enough. 
His  attack  upon  despatch  boxes  was  not  thought  to 
have  much  in  it;  but  as  it  is  short,  the  doctor  shall 
again  be  allowed  to  speak  his  sentiments. 

'  Could  utmost  ingenuity  in  the  management  of  red 
'tape  avail  anything  to  men  lying  gasping, — we  may 

*  say,  all  but  dead ;  could  despatch  boxes  with  never- 

*  so-much  velvet  lining  and  Chubb's  patent  be  of  com- 
'fort  to  a  people  in  extremis,  I  also,  with  so  many 
'  others,  would,  with  parched  tongue,  call  on  the  name 
'  of  Lord  John  Russell ;  or,  my  brother,  at  your  advice, 

*  on  Lord  Aberdeen ;  or,  my  cousin,  on  Lord  Derby, 
'  at  yours ;  being,  with  my  parched  tongue,  indifferent 
'to  such  matters.    'T  is  all  one.    Oh,  Derby!  Oh, 

12 


178 


THE  WARDEN. 


'Gladstone!  Oh,  Palmerston !  Oh,  Lord  John !  Each 
'comes  running  with  serene  face  and  despatch  box. 
'  Vain  physicians !  Though  there  were  hosts  of  such, 
'no  despatch  box  will  cure  this  disorder!  What!  are 
'  there  other  doctors'  new  names,  disciples  who  have 
'  not  yet  burdened  their  souls  with  tape  ?  Well,  let  us 
'  call  again.  Oh  Disraeli,  great  oppositionist,  man  of 
'  the  bitter  brow !  or,  Oh,  Molesworth,  great  reformer, 
'  thou  who  promisest  Utopia.  They  come ;  each  with 
*  that  serene  face,  and  each, — alas,  me !  alas,  my  coun- 
'  try !  — each  with  a  despatch  box ! 

'Oh,  the  serenity  of  Downing  Street! 

'  My  brothers,  when  hope  was  over  on  the  battle 
'  field,  when  no  dimmest  chance  of  victory  remained, 
'  the  ancient  Roman  could  hide  his  face  within  his  toga, 
'and  die  gracefully.  Can  you  and  I  do  so  now?  If 
'  so,  't  were  best  for  us.  If  not,  oh  my  brothers,  we 
'must  die  disgracefully,  for  hope  of  life  and  victory 
'I  see  none  left  to  us  in  this  world  below.  I  for 
'one  cannot  trust  much  to  serene  face  and  despatch 
'box!' 

There  might  be  truth  in  this,  there  might  be  depth 
of  reasoning;  but  Englishmen  did  not  see  enough  in 
the  argument  to  induce  them  to  withdraw  their  confi- 
dence from  the  present  arrangements  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  Dr.  Anticant's  monthly  pamphlet  on  the 
decay  of  the  world  did  not  receive  so  much  attention 
as  his  earlier  works.  He  did  not  confine  himself  to 
politics  in  these  publications,  but  roamed  at  large  over 
all  matters  of  public  interest,  and  found  everything  bad. 
According  to  him  nobody  was  true,  and  not  only  no- 
body, but  nothing.  A  man  could  not  take  off  his  hat 
to  a  lady  without  telling  a  lie.    The  lady  would  lie 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS.  1 79 

again  in  smiling.  The  ruffles  of  the  gentleman's  shirt 
would  be  fraught  with  deceit,  and  the  lady's  flounces 
full  of  falsehood.  Was  ever  anything  more  severe  than 
that  attack  of  his  on  chip  bonnets,  or  the  anathemas 
with  which  he  endeavoured  to  dust  the  powder  out  of 
the  bishops'  wigs? 

The  pamphlet  which  Tom  Towers  now  pushed 
across  the  table  was  entitled  "  Modern  Charity,"  and 
was  written  with  the  view  of  proving  how  much  in  the 
way  of  charity  was  done  by  our  predecessors ; — how 
little  by  the  present  age ;  and  it  ended  by  a  compari- 
son between  ancient  and  modem  times,  very  little  to 
the  credit  of  the  latter. 

"  Look  at  this,"  said  Towers,  getting  up  and  turning 
over  the  pages  of  the  pamphlet,  and  pointing  to  a  pas- 
sage near  the  end.  "  Your  friend  the  warden,  who  is 
so  little  selfish,  won't  like  that,  I  fear."  Bold  read  as 
follows : — 

'Heavens,  what  a  sight!  Let  us  with  eyes  wide 
'  open  see  the  godly  man  of  four  centuries  since,  the 
'man  of  the  dark  ages; — let  us  see  how  he  does  his 

*  godlike  work,  and,  again,  how  the  godly  man  of  these 

*  latter  days  does  his. 

*  Shall  we  say  that  the  former  one  is  walking  pain- 
'  fully  through  the  world,  regarding,  as  a  prudent  man, 
'his  worldly  work,  prospering  in  it  as  a  diligent  man 
'will  prosper,  but  always  with  an  eye  to  that  better 
'treasure  to  which  thieves  do  not  creep  in?  Is  there 
'  not  much  nobihty  in  that  old  man,  as,  leaning  on  his 
'  oaken  staff,  he  walks  down  the  high  street  of  his  native 
'  town,  and  receives  from  all  courteous  salutation  and 
'  acknowledgment  of  his  worth?    A  noble  old  man,  my 

*  august  inhabitants  of  Belgrave  Square  and  such  like 


i8o 


THE  WARDEN. 


*  vicinity, — a  very  noble  old  man,  though  employed  no 
'  better  than  in  the  wholesale  carding  of  wool. 

'  This  carding  of  wool,  however,  did  in  those  days 
'bring  with  it  much  profit,  so  that  our  ancient  friend, 
'when  dying,  was  declared,  in  whatever  slang  then 
'prevailed,  to  cut  up  exceeding  well.  For  sons  and 
'  daughters  there  was  ample  sustenance,  with  assistance 
'  of  due  industry  ;  for  friends  and  relatives  some  rehef 
'  for  grief  at  this  great  loss  ; — for  aged  dependants  com- 
'  fort  in  dechning  years.  This  was  much  for  one  old 
'  man  to  get  done  in  that  dark  fifteenth  century.  But 
'  this  was  not  all.  Coming  generations  of  poor  wool- 
'  carders  should  bless  the  name  of  this  rich  one ;  and 
'  a  hospital  should  be  founded  and  endowed  with  his 
'  wealth  for  the  feeding  of  such  of  the  trade  as  could 
'  not,  by  diHgent  carding,  any  longer  duly  feed  them- 
'  selves. 

'  'T  was  thus  that  an  old  man  in  the  fifteenth  cent- 
'  ury  did  his  godlike  work  to  the  best  of  his  power, 
'  and  not  ignobly,  as  appears  to  me. 

'We  will  now  take  our  godly  man  of  latter  days. 
'  He  shall  no  longer  be  a  wool-carder,  for  such  are  not 
'  now  men  of  mark.  We  will  suppose  him  to  be  one 
'of  the  best  of  the  good, — one  who  has  lacked  no 
'  opportunities.  Our  old  friend  was,  after  all,  but  illit- 
'erate.  Our  modern  friend  shall  be  a  man  educated 
'  in  all  seemly  knowledge ;  he  shall,  in  short,  be  that 
'blessed  being, — a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
'land! 

*  And  now,  in  what  perfectest  manner  does  he  in  this 
'  lower  world  get  his  godlike  work  done  and  put  out  of 
'hand?  Heavens  !  in  the  strangest  of  manners.  Oh, 
'  my  brother!  in  a  manner  not  at  all  to  be  beheved  but 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS.  l8l 

*  by  the  most  minute  testimony  of  eyesight.    He  does 

*  it  by  the  magnitude  of  his  appetite, — by  the  power  of 
'his  gorge!  His  only  occupation  is  to  swallow  the 
'  bread  prepared  with  so  much  anxious  care  for  these 

*  impoverished  carders  of  wool, — that,  and  to  sing  in- 
'  differently  through  his  nose  once  in  the  week  some 

*  psalm  more  or  less  long, — the  shorter  the  better,  we 

*  should  be  inclined  to  say. 

'  Oh,  my  civilised  friends !  — great  Britons  that  never 

*  will  be  slaves, — men  advanced  to  infinite  state  of  free- 
'  dom  and  knowledge  of  good  and  evil ;  tell  me,  will 

*  you,  what  becoming  monument  you  will  erect  to  an 
'highly  educated  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
'land?' 

Bold  certainly  thought  that  his  friend  would  not  like 
that.  He  could  not  conceive  anything  that  he  would 
like  less  than  this.  To  what  a  world  of  toil  and  trouble 
had  he.  Bold,  given  rise  by  his  indiscreet  attack  upon 
the  hospital! 

"  You  see,"  said  Towers,  "  that  this  affair  has  been 
much  talked  of,  and  the  public  are  with  you.  I  am 
sorry  you  should  give  the  matter  up.  Have  you  seen 
the  first  number  of  the  'Almshouse?  '  " 

No ;  Bold  had  not  seen  the  "  Almshouse."  He  had 
seen  advertisements  of  Mr.  Popular  Sentiment's  new 
novel  of  that  name,  but  had  in  no  way  connected  it 
with  Barchester  Hospital,  and  had  never  thought  a  mo- 
ment on  the  subject. 

"  It 's  a  direct  attack  on  the  whole  system,"  said 
Towers.  "  It  '11  go  a  long  way  to  put  down  Roches- 
ter, and  Barchester,  and  Dulwich,  and  St.  Cross,  and 
all  such  hotbeds  of  peculation.  It 's  very  clear  that 
Sentiment  has  been  down  to  Barchester,  and  got  up  the 


1 82  THE  WARDEN. 

whole  Story  there.  Indeed,  I  thought  he  must  have 
had  it  all  from  you.  It 's  very  well  done,  as  you  '11 
see.    His  first  numbers  always  are." 

Bold  declared  that  Mr.  Sentiment  had  got  nothing 
from  him,  and  that  he  was  deeply  grieved  to  find  that 
the  case  had  become  so  notorious.  "The  fire  has 
gone  too  far  to  be  quenched,"  said  Towers;  "the 
building  must  go  now ;  and  as  the  timbers  are  all  rot- 
ten, why,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say,  the  sooner  the 
better.  I  expected  to  see  you  get  some  eclat  in  the 
matter." 

This  was  all  wormwood  to  Bold.  He  had  done 
enough  to  make  his  friend  the  warden  miserable  for 
Hfe,  and  had  then  backed  out  just  when  the  success  of 
his  project  was  sufficient  to  make  the  question  one  of 
real  interest.  How  weakly  he  had  managed  his  busi- 
ness! He  had  already  done  the  harm,  and  then  stayed 
his  hand  when  the  good  which  he  had  in  view  was  to 
be  commenced.  How  delightful  would  it  have  been 
to  have  employed  all  his  energy  in  such  a  cause, — to 
have  been  backed  by  the  Jupiter,  and  written  up  to 
by  two  of  the  most  popular  authors  of  the  day  !  The 
idea  opened  a  vista  into  the  very  world  in  which  he 
wished  to  live.  To  what  might  it  not  have  given  rise? 
what  delightful  intimacies, — what  public  praise, — to 
what  Athenian  banquets  and  rich  flavom  of  Attic  salt? 

This,  however,  was  now  past  hope.  He  had  pledged 
himself  to  abandon  the  cause ;  and  could  he  have  for- 
gotten the  pledge,  he  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat.  He 
was  now,  this  moment,  sitting  in  Tom  Towers'  room 
with  the  object  of  deprecating  any  further  articles  in 
the  Jupiter,  and,  greatly  as  he  disliked  the  job,  his  pe- 
tition to  that  effect  must  be  made. 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS.  1 83 

"  I  could  n't  continue  it,"  said  he,  "  because  I  found 
I  was  in  the  wrong." 

Tom  Towers  shrugged  his  shoulders.  How  could 
a  successful  man  be  in  the  wrong!  ''In  that  case," 
said  he,  "  of  course  you  must  abandon  it." 

"  And  I  called  this  morning  to  ask  you  also  to  aban- 
don it,"  said  Bold. 

"  To  ask  me,"  said  Tom  Towers  with  the  most  placid 
of  smiles,  and  a  consummate  look  of  gentle  surprise, 
as  though  Tom  Towers  was  well  aware  that  he  of  all 
men  was  the  last  to  meddle  in  such  matters. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bold,  almost  trembling  with  hesitation. 
"  The  Jupiter,  you  know,  has  taken  the  matter  up  very 
strongly.  Mr.  Harding  has  felt  what  it  has  said  deeply ; 
and  I  thought  that  if  I  could  explain  to  you  that  he 
personally  has  not  been  to  blame,  these  articles  might 
be  discontinued." 

How  calmly  impassive  was  Tom  Towers'  face,  as 
this  innocent  little  proposition  was  made !  Had  Bold 
addressed  himself  to  the  doorposts  in  Mount  Olympus, 
they  would  have  shown  as  much  outward  sign  of  as- 
sent or  dissent.  His  quiescence  was  quite  admirable. 
His  discretion  certainly  more  than  human. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  when  Bold  had  quite  done 
speaking,  "  I  really  cannot  answer  for  the  Jupiter." 

"  But  if  you  saw  that  these  articles  were  unjust,  I 
think  that  you  would  endeavour  to  put  a  stop  to  them. 
Of  course  nobody  doubts  that  you  could,  if  you 
chose." 

"  Nobody  and  everybody  are  always  very  kind,  but 
unfortunately  are  generally  very  wrong." 

"  Come,  come.  Towers,"  said  Bold,  plucking  up  his 
courage,  and  remembering  that  for  Eleanor's  sake  he 


THE  WARDEN. 


was  bound  to  make  his  best  exertion;  "1  have  no 
doubt  in  my  own  mind  but  that  you  wrote  the  articles 
yourself.  And  very  well  written  they  were.  It  will 
be  a  great  favour  if  you  will  in  future  abstain  from  any 
personal  allusion  to  poor  Harding." 

My  dear  Bold,"  said  Tom  Towers,  "  I  have  a  sin- 
cere regard  for  you.  I  have  known  you  for  many 
years,  and  value  your  friendship.  I  hope  you  will  let 
me  explain  to  you,  without  offence,  that  none  who  are 
connected  with  the  public  press  can  with  propriety 
listen  to  interference." 

"Interference!"  said  Bold,  "I  don't  want  to  inter- 
fere." 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  but  you  do.  What  else  is  it? 
You  think  that  I  am  able  to  keep  certain  remarks  out 
of  a  newspaper.  Your  information  is  probably  incor- 
rect, as  most  pubhc  gossip  on  such  subjects  is ;  but,  at 
any  rate,  you  think  I  have  such  power ;  and  you  ask 
me  to  use  it.    Now  that  is  interference." 

"Well,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  so." 

"  And  now  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  had  this 
power,  and  used  it  as  you  wish.  Is  n't  it  clear  that  it 
would  be  a  great  abuse?  Certain  men  are  employed 
in  writing  for  the  public  press ;  and  if  they  are  induced 
either  to  write  or  to  abstain  from  writing  by  private 
motives,  surely  the  pubHc  press  would  soon  be  of  little 
value.  Look  at  the  recognised  worth  of  different  news- 
papers, and  see  if  it  does  not  mainly  depend  on  the 
assurance  which  the  public  feel  that  such  a  paper  is, 
or  is  not,  independent.  You  alluded  to  the  Jupiter. 
Surely  you  cannot  but  see  that  the  weight  of  the  Ju- 
piter is  too  great  to  be  moved  by  any  private  request, 
even  though  it  should  be  made  to  a  much  more  influ' 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS.  1 85 

ential  person  than  myself.  You  Ve  only  to  think  of 
this,  and  you  '11  see  that  I  am  right." 

The  discretion  of  Tom  Towers  was  boundless. 
There  was  no  contradicting  what  he  said,  no  arguing 
against  such  propositions.  He  took  such  high  ground 
that  there  was  no  getting  up  on  to  it.  "  The  public  is 
defrauded,"  said  he,  "  whenever  private  considerations 
are  allowed  to  have  weight."  Quite  true,  thou  great- 
est oracle  of  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century; 
thou  sententious  proclaimer  of  the  purity  of  the  press. 
The  public  is  defrauded  when  it  is  purposely  misled. 
Poor  public !  How  often  is  it  misled !  Against  what 
a  world  of  fraud  has  it  to  contend! 

Bold  took  his  leave,  and  got  out  of  the  room  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  inwardly  denouncing  his  friend 
Tom  Towers  as  a  prig  and  a  humbug.  *  I  know  he 
wrote  those  articles,'  said  Bold  to  himself.  '  I  know 
*he  got  his  information  from  me.    He  was  ready 

*  enough  to  take  my  word  for  gospel  when  it  suited  his 
'own  views,  and  to  set  Mr.  Harding  up  before  the 
'public  as  an  impostor  on  no  other  testimony  than  my 
'  chance  conversation ;  but  when  I  offer  him  real  evi- 
'  dence  opposed  to  his  own  views,  he  tells  me  that  pri- 
*vate  motives  are  detrimental  to  public  justice!  Con- 

*  found  his  arrogance!  What  is  any  public  question 
'but  a  conglomeration  of  private  interests?  What  is 
'  any  newspaper  article  but  an  expression  of  the  views 
'  taken  by  one  side?  Truth!  It  takes  an  age  to  ascer- 
'tain  the  truth  of  any  question!  The  idea  of  Tom 
'  Towers  talking  of  public  motives  and  purity  of  pur- 
'  pose !  Why ;  it  would  n't  give  him  a  moment's  un- 
'  easiness  to  change  his  politics  to-morrow,  if  the  paper 
'required  it.' 


i86 


THE  WARDEN. 


Such  were  John  Bold's  inward  exclamations  as  he 
made  his  way  out  of  the  quiet  labyrinth  of  the  Temple. 
And  yet  there  was  no  position  of  worldly  power  so 
coveted  in  Bold's  ambition  as  that  held  by  the  man  of 
whom  he  was  thinking.  It  was  the  impregnability  of 
the  place  which  made  Bold  so  angry  with  the  pos- 
sessor of  it,  and  it  was  the  same  quality  which  made 
it  appear  so  desirable. 

Passing  into  the  Strand,  he  saw  in  a  bookseller's 
window  an  announcement  of  the  first  number  of  the 
"Almshouse;"  so  he  purchased  a  copy,  and  hurrying 
back  to  his  lodgings,  proceeded  to  ascertain  what  Mr. 
Popular  Sentiment  had  to  say  to  the  public  on  the 
subject  which  had  lately  occupied  so  much  of  his  own 
attention. 

In  former  times  great  objects  were  attained  by  great 
work.  When  evils  were  to  be  reformed,  reformers  set 
about  their  heavy  task  with  grave  decorum  and  labo- 
rious argument.  An  age  was  occupied  in  proving  a 
grievance,  and  philosophical  researches  were  printed 
in  folio  pages,  which  it  took  a  Hfe  to  write,  and  an 
eternity  to  read.  We  get  on  now  with  a  lighter  step, 
and  quicker.  "  Ridiculum  acri  Fortius  et  melius  mag- 
nas  plerumque  secat  res."  Ridicule  is  found  to  be 
more  convincing  than  argument,  imaginary  agonies 
touch  more  than  true  sorrows,  and  monthly  novels  con- 
vince, when  learned  quartos  fail  to  do  so.  If  the 
world  is  to  be  set  right,  the  work  will  be  done  by  shil- 
ling numbers. 

Of  all  such  reformers  Mr.  Sentiment  is  the  most 
powerful.  It  is  incredible  the  number  of  evil  practices 
he  has  put  down.  It  is  to  be  feared  he  will  soon  lack 
subjects,  and  that  when  he  has  made  the  working  classes 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS. 


187 


comfortable,  and  got  bitter  beer  put  into  proper-sized 
pint  bottles,  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  him  to  do. 
Mr.  Sentiment  is  certainly  a  very  powerful  man,  and 
perhaps  not  the  less  so  that  his  good  poor  people  are 
so  very  good ;  his  hard  rich  people  so  very  hard ;  and 
the  genuinely  honest  so  very  honest.  Namby-pamby 
in  these  days  is  not  thrown  away  if  it  be  introduced  in 
the  proper  quarters.  Divine  peeresses  are  no  longer 
interesting,  though  possessed  of  every  virtue;  but  a 
pattern  peasant  or  an  immaculate  manufacturing  hero 
may  talk  as  much  twaddle  as  one  of  Mrs.  Ratchffe's 
heroines,  and  still  be  Hstened  to.  Perhaps,  however, 
Mr.  Sentiment's  great  attraction  is  in  his  second-rate 
characters.  If  his  heroes  and  heroines  walk  upon  stilts, 
as  heroes  and  heroines,  I  fear,  ever  must,  their  attend- 
ant satellites  are  as  natural  as  though  one  met  them 
in  the  street.  They  walk  and  talk  like  men  and  women, 
and  live  among  our  friends  a  rattHng,  lively  life ;  yes, 
live,  and  will  live  till  the  names  of  their  calling  shall 
be  forgotten  in  their  own,  and  Buckett  and  Mrs.  Gamp 
will  be  the  only  words  left  to  us  to  signify  a  detective 
police  officer  or  a  monthly  nurse. 

The  "Almshouse  "  opened  with  a  scene  in  a  clergy- 
man's house.  Every  luxury  to  be  purchased  by  wealth 
was  described  as  being  there.  All  the  appearances  of 
household  indulgence  generally  found  amongst  the 
most  self-indulgent  of  the  rich  were  crowded  into  this 
abode.  Here  the  reader  was  introduced  to  the  demon 
of  the  book,  the  Mephistopheles  of  the  drama.  What 
story  was  ever  written  without  a  demon  ?  What  novel, 
what  history,  what  work  of  any  sort,  what  world,  would 
be  perfect  without  existing  principles  both  of  good  and 
evil?    The  demon  of  the  "Almshouse"  was  the  cler- 


i88 


THE  WARDEN. 


ical  owner  of  this  comfortable  abode.  He  was  a  man 
well  stricken  in  years,  but  still  strong  to  do  evil.  He 
was  one  who  looked  cruelly  out  of  a  hot,  passionate, 
bloodshot  eye ;  who  had  a  huge  red  nose  with  a  car- 
buncle, thick  lips,  and  a  great  double,  flabby  chin, 
which  swelled  out  into  solid  substance,  like  a  turkey 
cock's  comb,  when  sudden  anger  inspired  him.  He 
had  a  hot,  furrowed,  low  brow,  from  which  a  few 
grizzled  hairs  were  not  yet  rubbed  off  by  the  friction 
of  his  handkerchief.  He  wore  a  loose  unstarched 
white  handkerchief,  black,  loose,  ill-made  clothes,  and 
huge  loose  shoes,  adapted  to  many  corns  and  various 
bunions.  His  husky  voice  told  tales  of  much  daily 
port  wine,  and  his  language  was  not  so  decorous  as 
became  a  clergyman.  Such  was  the  master  of  Mr. 
Sentiment's  "  Almshouse."  He  was  a  widower,  but  at 
present  accompanied  by  two  daughters,  and  a  thin  and 
somewhat  insipid  curate.  One  of  the  young  ladies 
was  devoted  to  her  father  and  the  fashionable  world, 
and  she  of  course  was  the  favourite.  The  other  was 
equally  addicted  to  Puseyism  and  the  curate. 

The  second  chapter  of  course  introduced  the  reader 
to  the  more  especial  inmates  of  the  hospital.  Here 
were  discovered  eight  old  men ;  and  it  was  given  to 
be  understood  that  four  vacancies  remained  unfilled, 
through  the  perverse  ill-nature  of  the  clerical  gentle- 
man with  the  double  chin.  The  state  of  these  eight 
paupers  was  touchingly  dreadful.  Sixpence-farthing 
a  day  had  been  sufficient  for  their  diet  when  the  alms- 
house was  founded ;  and  on  sixpence-farthing  a  day 
were  they  still  doomed  to  starve,  though  food  was  four 
times  as  dear,  and  money  four  times  as  plentiful.  It 
was  shocking  to  find  how  the  conversation  of  these 


TOM  TOWERS  AND  OTHERS.  1 89 

eight  starved  old  men  in  their  dormitory  shamed  that 
of  the  clergyman's  family  in  his  rich  drawing-room. 
The  absolute  words  they  uttered  were  not  perhaps 
spoken  in  the  purest  English,  and  it  might  be  difficult 
to  distinguish  from  their  dialect  to  what  part  of  the 
country  they  belonged.  The  beauty  of  the  sentiment, 
however,  amply  atoned  for  the  imperfection  of  the 
language ;  and  it  was  really  a  pity  that  these  eight  old 
men  could  not  be  sent  through  the  country  as  moral 
missionaries,  instead  of  being  immured  and  starved  in 
that  wretched  alms-house. 

Bold  finished  the  number ;  and  as  he  threw  it  aside, 
he  thought  that  that  at  least  had  no  direct  apphance  to 
Mr,  Harding,  and  that  the  absurdly  strong  colouring 
of  the  picture  would  disenable  the  work  from  doing 
either  good  or  harm.  He  was  wrong.  The  artist  who 
paints  for  the  milHon  must  use  glaring  colours,  as  no 
one  knew  better  than  Mr.  Sentiment  when  he  described 
the  inhabitants  of  his  alms-house ;  and  the  radical  re- 
form which  has  now  swept  over  such  establishments 
has  owed  more  to  the  twenty  numbers  of  Mr.  Senti- 
ment's novel,  than  to  all  the  true  complaints  which 
have  escaped  from  the  public  for  the  last  half  century. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 

The  warden  had  to  make  use  of  all  his  very  moder- 
ate powers  of  intrigue  to  give  his  son-in-law  the  slip, 
and  get  out  of  Barchester  without  being  stopped  on 
his  road.  No  schoolboy  ever  ran  away  from  school 
with  more  precaution  and  more  dread  of  detection; 
no  convict  slipping  down  from  a  prison  wall  ever  feared 
to  see  the  gaoler  more  entirely  than  Mr.  Harding  did 
to  see  his  son-in-law,  as  he  drove  up  in  the  pony  car- 
riage to  the  railway  station,  on  the  morning  of  his  es- 
cape to  London.  It  was  mean  all  this,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  mean ;  but,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could 
not  help  it.  Had  he  met  the  archdeacon  he  certainly 
would  have  lacked  the  courage  to  explain  the  purpose 
which  was  carrying  him  up  to  London ; — to  explain  it 
in  full. 

The  evening  before  he  went,  however,  he  wrote  a 
note  to  the  archdeacon,  explaining  something.  He 
said  that  he  should  start  on  the  morrow  on  his  journey ; 
that  it  was  his  intention  to  see  the  attorney-general  if 
possible,  and  to  decide  on  his  future  plans  in  accord- 
ance with  what  he  heard  from  that  gentleman ;  he  ex- 
cused himself  for  giving  Dr.  Grantly  no  earlier  notice, 
by  stating  that  his  resolve  was  very  sudden ;  and  hav- 
ing entrusted  this  note  to  Eleanor,  with  the  perfect, 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON.  I91 

though  not  expressed,  understanding  that  it  was  to  be 
sent  over  to  Plumstead  Episcopi  without  haste,  he  took 
his  departure. 

He  also  prepared  and  carried  with  him  a  note  for 
Sir  Abraham  Haphazard,  in  which  he  stated  his  name, 
explaining  that  he  was  the  defendant  in  the  case  of 
"  The  Queen  on  behalf  of  the  Wool-carders  of  Bar- 
chester  v.  Trustees  under  the  will  of  the  late  John 
Hiram,"  for  so  was  the  suit  denominated,  and  begged 
the  illustrious  and  learned  gentleman  to  vouchsafe  to 
him  ten  minutes'  audience  at  any  hour  on  the  next 
day.  Mr.  Harding  calculated  that  for  that  one  day  he 
was  safe ;  his  son-in-law,  he  had  no  doubt,  would  ar- 
rive in  town  by  an  early  train,  but  not  early  enough  to 
reach  the  truant  till  he  should  have  escaped  from  his 
hotel  after  breakfast ;  and,  could  he  thus  manage  to 
see  the  lawyer  on  that  very  day,  the  deed  might  be 
done  before  the  archdeacon  could  interfere. 

On  his  arrival  in  town  the  warden  drove,  as  was  his 
wont,  to  the  Chapter  Hotel  and  Coffee  House,  near 
St.  Paul's.  His  visits  to  London  of  late  had  not  been 
frequent;  but  in  those  happy  days  when  Harding's 
Church  Music  was  going  through  the  press,  he  had 
been  often  there ;  and  as  the  publisher's  house  was  in 
Paternoster  Row,  and  the  printer's  press  in  Fleet  Street, 
the  Chapter  Hotel  and  Coffee  House  had  been  con- 
venient. It  was  a  quiet,  sombre,  clerical  house,  be- 
seeming such  a  man  as  the  warden,  and  thus  he  after- 
wards frequented  it.  Had  he  dared,  he  would  on  this 
occasion  have  gone  elsewhere  to  throw  the  archdeacon 
further  off  the  scent ;  but  he  did  not  know  what  violent 
steps  his  son-in-law  might  take  for  his  recovery  if  he 
were  not  found  at  his  usual  haunt,  and  he  deemed  it 


192 


THE  WARDEN. 


not  prudent  to  make  himself  the  object  of  a  hunt 
through  London. 

Arrived  at  his  inn,  he  ordered  dinner,  and  went  forth 
to  the  attorney-general's  chambers.  There  he  learnt 
that  Sir  Abraham  was  in  Court,  and  would  not  proba- 
bly return  that  day.  He  would  go  direct  from  Court 
to  the  House ;  all  appointments  were,  as  a  rule,  made 
at  the  chambers ;  the  clerk  could  by  no  means  promise 
an  interview  for  the  next  day ;  was  able,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  say  that  such  interview  was,  he  thought,  im- 
possible ;  but  that  Sir  Abraham  would  certainly  be  at 
the  House  in  the  course  of  the  night,  where  an  answer 
from  himself  might  possibly  be  elicited. 

To  the  House  Mr.  Harding  went,  and  left  his  note, 
not  finding  Sir  Abraham  there.  He  added  a  most 
piteous  entreaty  that  he  might  be  favoured  with  an 
answer  that  evening,  for  which  he  would  return.  He 
then  journeyed  back  sadly  to  the  Chapter  Coffee 
House,  digesting  his  great  thoughts,  as  best  he  might, 
in  a  clattering  omnibus,  wedged  in  between  a  wet  old 
lady  and  a  journeyman  glazier  returning  from  his  work 
with  his  tools  in  his  lap.  In  melancholy  solitude  he 
discussed  his  mutton  chop  and  pint  of  port.  What  is 
there  in  this  world  more  melancholy  than  such  a  din- 
ner? A  dinner,  though  eaten  alone,  in  a  country  hotel 
may  be  worthy  of  some  energy ;  the  waiter,  if  you  are 
known,  will  make  much  of  you ;  the  landlord  will  make 
you  a  bow  and  perhaps  put  the  fish  on  the  table ;  if 
you  ring  you  are  attended  to,  and  there  is  some  life 
about  it.  A  dinner  at  a  London  eatinghouse  is  also 
lively  enough,  if  it  have  no  other  attraction.  There  is 
plenty  of  noise  and  stir  about  it,  and  the  rapid  whirl 
of  voices  and  rattle  of  dishes  disperses  sadness.  But 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


a  solitary  dinner  in  an  old,  respectable,  sombre,  solid 
London  inn,  where  nothing  makes  any  noise  but  the 
old  waiter's  creaking  shoes;  where  one  plate  slowly 
goes  and  another  slowly  comes  without  a  sound ;  where 
the  two  or  three  guests  would  as  soon  think  of  knock- 
ing each  other  down  as  of  talking  to  one  another; 
where  the  servants  whisper,  and  the  whole  household 
is  disturbed  if  an  order  be  given  above  the  voice, — 
what  can  be  more  melancholy  than  a  mutton  chop  and 
a  pint  of  port  in  such  a  place? 

Having  gone  through  this  Mr.  Harding  got  into 
another  omnibus,  and  again  returned  to  the  House. 
Yes,  Sir  Abraham  was  there,  and  was  that  moment  on 
his  legs,  fighting  eagerly  for  the  hundred  and  seventh 
clause  of  the  Convent  Custody  Bill.  Mr.  Harding's 
note  had  been  dehvered  to  him ;  and  if  Mr.  Harding 
would  wait  some  two  or  three  hours,  Sir  Abraham 
could  be  asked  whether  there  was  any  answer.  The 
House  was  not  full,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Harding  might 
get  admittance  into  the  Strangers'  Gallery,  which  ad- 
mission, with  the  help  of  five  shillings,  Mr.  Harding 
was  able  to  effect.* 

This  bill  of  Sir  Abraham's  had  been  read  a  second 
time  and  passed  into  committee.  A  hundred  and  six 
clauses  had  already  been  discussed,  and  had  occupied 
only  four  mornings  and  five  evening  sittings.  Nine  of 
the  hundred  and  six  clauses  were  passed,  fifty-five  were 
withdrawn  by  consent,  fourteen  had  been  altered  so  as 
to  mean  the  reverse  of  the  original  proposition,  eleven 
had  been  postponed  for  further  consideration,  and  sev- 
enteen had  been  directly  negatived.    The  hundred  and 

*  How  these  pleasant  things  have  been  altered  since  this  was 
written  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago! 

13 


194 


THE  WARDEN. 


seventh  ordered  the  bodily  searching  of  nuns  for  Jes- 
uitical symbols  by  aged  clergymen,  and  was  consid- 
ered to  be  the  real  mainstay  of  the  whole  bill.  No 
intention  had  ever  existed  to  pass  such  a  law  as  that 
proposed,  but  the  Government  did  not  intend  to  aban- 
don it  till  their  object  was  fully  attained  by  the  discus- 
sion of  this  clause.  It  was  known  that  it  would  be 
insisted  on  with  terrible  vehemence  by  Protestant  Irish 
members,  and  as  vehemently  denounced  by  the  Roman 
Catholic  ;  and  it  was  justly  considered  that  no  further 
union  between  the  parties  would  be  possible  after  such 
a  battle.  The  innocent  Irish  fell  into  the  trap  as  they 
always  do,  and  whiskey  and  poplins  became  a  drug  in 
the  market.* 

A  florid-faced  gentleman  with  a  nice  head  of  hair, 
from  the  south  of  Ireland,  had  succeeded  in  catching 
the  speaker's  eye  by  the  time  that  Mr.  Harding  had  got 
into  the  gallery,  and  was  denouncing  the  proposed  sacri- 
lege, his  whole  face  glowing  with  a  fine  theatrical  frenzy. 

And  is  this  a  Christian  country?  "  said  he.  (Loud 
cheers;  counter  cheers  from  the  ministerial  benches. 
*  Some  doubt  as  to  that,'  from  a  voice  below  the  gang- 
way.) "  No,  it  can  be  no  Christian  country,  in  which 
the  head  of  the  bar,  the  lagal  adviser  (loud  laughter 
and  cheers) — yes,  I  say  the  lagal  adviser  of  the  crown 
(great  cheers  and  laughter) — can  stand  up  in  his  seat 
in  this  house  (prolonged  cheers  and  laughter),  and  at- 
tempt to  lagalise  indacent  assaults  on  the  bodies  of  re- 
ligious ladies."  (Deafening  cheers  and  laughter,  which 
were  prolonged  till  the  honourable  member  resumed 
his  seat.) 

When  Mr.  Harding  had  listened  to  this  and  much 
*  Again  what  a  change! 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON.  1 95 

more  of  the  same  kind  for  about  three  hours,  he  re- 
turned to  the  door  of  the  House,  and  received  back 
from  the  messenger  his  own  note,  with  the  following 
words  scrawled  in  pencil  on  the  back  of  it ; — To-mor- 
row, 10  P.M. — my  chambers.    A.  H." 

He  was  so  far  successful.  But  lo  p.m.!  What  an 
hour  Sir  Abraham  had  named  for  a  legal  interview! 
Mr.  Harding  felt  perfectly  sure  that  long  before  that 
Dr.  Grantly  would  be  in  London.  Dr.  Grantly  could 
not,  however,  know  that  this  interview  had  been  ar- 
ranged, nor  could  he  learn  it  unless  he  managed  to  get 
hold  of  Sir  Abraham  before  that  hour ;  and  as  this  was 
very  improbable,  Mr.  Harding  determined  to  start  from 
his  hotel  early,  merely  leaving  word  that  he  should 
dine  out,  and  unless  luck  were  much  against  him,  he 
might  still  escape  the  archdeacon  till  his  return  from 
the  attorney-general's  chambers. 

He  was  at  breakfast  at  nine,  and  for  the  twentieth 
time  consulted  his  "  Bradshaw,"  to  see  at  what  earliest 
hoiu-  Dr.  Grantly  could  arrive  from  Barchester.  As  he 
examined  the  columns,  he  was  nearly  petrified  by  the 
reflection  that  perhaps  the  archdeacon  might  come  up 
by  the  mail-train!  His  heart  sank  within  him  at  the 
horrid  idea,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  himself  dragged 
back  to  Barchester  without  accomplishing  any  portion 
of  his  object.  Then  he  remembered  that  had  Dr. 
Grantly  done  so,  he  would  have  been  in  the  hotel,  look- 
ing for  him  long  since. 

"  Waiter,"  said  he,  timidly. 

The  waiter  approached,  creaking  in  his  shoes,  but 
voiceless. 

"  Did  any  gentleman, — a  clergyman,  arrive  here  by 
the  night  mail-train?  " 


196 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  No,  sir,  not  one,"  whispered  the  waiter,  putting  his 
mouth  nearly  close  to  the  warden's  ear. 
Mr.  Harding  was  reassured. 

''Waiter,"  said  he  again,  and  the  waiter  again 
creaked  up.  "  If  any  one  calls  for  me,  I  am  going  to 
dine  out,  and  shall  return  about  eleven  o'clock." 

The  waiter  nodded,  but  did  not  this  time  vouchsafe 
any  reply ;  and  Mr.  Harding,  taking  up  his  hat,  pro- 
ceeded out  to  pass  a  long  day  in  the  best  way  he  could, 
somewhere  out  of  sight  of  the  archdeacon. 

"  Bradshaw "  had  told  him  twenty  times  that  Dr. 
Grantly  could  not  be  at  the  Paddington  station  till 
2  P.M.,  and  our  poor  friend  might  therefore  have  trusted 
to  the  shelter  of  the  hotel  for  some  hours  longer  with 
perfect  safety.  But  he  was  nervous.  There  was  no 
knowing  what  steps  the  archdeacon  might  take  for  his 
apprehension.  A  message  by  electric  telegraph  might 
desire  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  to  set  a  watch  upon 
him ;  some  letter  might  come  which  he  might  find  him- 
self unable  to  disobey ;  at  any  rate,  he  could  not  feel 
himself  secure  in  any  place  at  which  the  archdeacon 
could  expect  to  find  him;  and  at  10  a.m.  he  started 
forth  to  spend  twelve  hours  in  London. 

Mr.  Harding  had  friends  in  town  had  he  chosen  to 
seek  them ;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  in  no  humour  for 
ordinary  calls,  and  he  did  not  now  wish  to  consult  with 
any  one  as  to  the  great  step  which  he  had  determined 
to  take.  As  he  had  said  to  his  daughter,  no  one  knows 
where  the  shoe  pinches  but  the  wearer.  There  are 
some  points  on  which  no  man  can  be  contented  to  fol- 
low the  advice  of  another, — some  subjects  on  which  a 
man  can  consult  his  own  conscience  only.  Our  warden 
had  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  good  for  him  at  any 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


197 


cost  to  get  rid  of  this  grievance.  His  daughter  was  the 
only  person  whose  concurrence  appeared  necessary  to 
him,  and  she  did  concur  ,with  him  most  heartily.  Un- 
der such  circumstances  he  would  not,  if  he  could  help 
it,  consult  any  one  further  till  advice  would  be  useless. 
Should  the  archdeacon  catch  him,  indeed,  there  would 
be  much  advice,  and  much  consultation  of  a  kind  not 
to  be  avoided ;  but  he  hoped  better  things ;  and  as  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  now  converse  on  indifferent  sub- 
jects, he  resolved  to  see  no  one  till  after  his  interview 
with  the  attorney-general. 

He  determined  to  take  sanctuary  in  Westminster 
Abbey ;  he  went,  therefore,  again  thither  in  an  omni- 
bus, and  finding  that  the  doors  were  not  open  for  morn- 
ing service,  he  paid  his  twopence,  and  entered  the 
Abbey  as  a  sight-seer.*  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  no  definite  place  of  rest  for  the  day,  and  that  he 
should  be  absolutely  worn  out  before  his  interview  if 
he  attempted  to  walk  about  from  10  a.m.  to  10  p.m. 
So  he  sat  himself  down  on  a  stone  step,  and  gazed  up 
at  the  figure  of  William  Pitt,  who  looks  as  though  he 
had  just  entered  the  church  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
and  was  anything  but  pleased  at  finding  himself  there. 

He  had  been  sitting  unmolested  about  twenty  min- 
utes when  the  verger  asked  him  whether  he  would  n't 
like  to  walk  round.  Mr.  Harding  did  n't  want  to  walk 
anywhere,  and  declined,  merely  observing  that  he  was 
waiting  for  the  morning  service.  The  verger,  seeing 
that  he  was  a  clergyman,  told  him  that  the  doors  of 
the  choir  were  now  open,  and  showed  him  into  a  seat. 
This  was  a  great  point  gained ;  the  archdeacon  would 
certainly  not  come  to  morning  service  at  Westminster 
*  Again  what  a  change ! 


THE  WARDEN. 


Abbey,  even  though  he  were  in  London ;  and  here  the 
warden  could  rest  quietly,  and,  when  the  time  came, 
duly  say  his  prayers. 

He  longed  to  get  up  from  his  seat,  and  examine  the 
music-books  of  the  choristers,  and  the  copy  of  the  litany 
from  which  the  service  was  chanted,  to  see  how  far  the 
little  details  at  Westminster  corresponded  with  those  at 
Barchester,  and  whether  he  thought  his  own  voice 
would  fill  the  church  well  from  the  Westminster  pre- 
centor's seat.  There  would,  however,  be  impropriety 
in  such  meddhng,  and  he  sat  perfectly  still,  looking  up 
at  the  noble  roof,  and  guarding  against  the  coming 
fatigues  of  the  day. 

By  degrees  two  or  three  people  entered ;  the  very 
same  damp  old  woman  who  had  nearly  obliterated  him 
in  the  omnibus,  or  some  other  just  like  her ;  a  couple 
of  young  ladies  with  their  veils  down,  and  gilt  crosses 
conspicuous  on  their  prayer-books;  an  old  man  on 
crutches ;  a  party  who  were  seeing  the  Abbey,  and 
thought  they  might  as  well  hear  the  service  for  their 
twopence,  as  opportunity  served ;  and  a  young  woman 
with  her  prayer-book  done  up  in  her  handkerchief,  who 
rushed  in  late,  and,  in  her  hurried  entry,  tumbled  over 
one  of  the  forms,  and  made  such  a  noise  that  every 
one,  even  the  officiating  minor  canon,  was  startled,  and 
she  herself  was  so  frightened  by  the  echo  of  her  own 
catastrophe  that  she  was  nearly  thrown  into  fits  by  the 
panic. 

Mr.  Harding  was  not  much  edified  by  the  manner 
of  the  service.  The  minor  canon  in  question  hurried 
in,  somewhat  late,  in  a  surplice  not  in  the  neatest  order, 
and  was  followed  by  a  dozen  choristers,  who  were  also 
not  as  trim  as  they  might  have  been.    They  all  jostled 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


199 


into  their  places  with  a  quick  hurried  step,  and  the  ser- 
vice was  soon  commenced.  Soon  commenced  and 
soon  over, — for  there  was  no  music,  and  time  v/as  not 
unnecessarily  lost  in  the  chanting.*  On  the  whole  Mr. 
Harding  was  of  opinion  that  things  were  managed  bet- 
ter at  Barchester,  though  even  there  he  knew  that  there 
was  room  for  improvement. 

It  appears  to  us  a  question  whether  any  clergyman 
can  go  through  our  church  service  with  decorum,  morn- 
ing after  morning,  in  an  immense  building,  surrounded 
by  not  more  than  a  dozen  listeners.  The  best  actors 
cannot  act  well  before  empty  benches,  and  though  there 
is,  of  course,  a  higher  motive  in  one  case  than  the  other, 
still  even  the  best  of  clergymen  cannot  but  be  influ- 
enced by  their  audience.  To  expect  that  a  duty 
should  be  well  done  under  such  circumstances,  would 
be  to  require  from  human  nature  more  than  human 
power. 

When  the  two  ladies  with  the  gilt  crosses,  the  old 
man  with  his  crutches,  and  the  still  palpitating  house- 
maid were  going,  Mr.  Harding  found  himself  obliged 
to  go  too.  The  verger  stood  in  his  way,  and  looked 
at  him  and  looked  at  the  door,  and  so  he  went.  But 
he  returned  again  in  a  few  minutes,  and  re-entered 
with  another  twopence.  There  was  no  other  sanctuary 
so  good  for  him. 

As  he  walked  slowly  down  the  nave,  and  then  up 
one  aisle,  and  then  again  down  the  nave  and  up  the 
other  aisle,  he  tried  to  think  gravely  of  the  step  he  v/as 
about  to  take.  He  was  going  to  give  up  eight  hun- 
dred a  year  voluntarily ;  and  doom  himself  to  live  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  on  about  a  hundred  and  fifty.  He 

*  Again  the  changes  which  years  have  made  should  be  noted. 


200 


THE  WARDEN. 


knew  that  he  had  hitherto  failed  to  reahse  this  fact  as 
he  ought  to  do.  Could  he  maintain  his  own  independ- 
ence and  support  his  daughter  on  a  hundred  and  fifty- 
pounds  a  year  without  being  a  burden  on  any  one? 
His  son-in-law  was  rich,  but  nothing  could  induce  him 
to  lean  on  his  son-in-law  after  acting,  as  he  intended 
to  do,  in  direct  opposition  to  his  son-in-law's  counsel. 
The  bishop  was  rich,  but  he  was  about  to  throw  away 
the  bishop's  best  gift,  and  that  in  a  manner  to  injure 
materially  the  patronage  of  the  giver.  He  could  neither 
expect  nor  accept  anything  further  from  the  bishop. 
There  would  be  not  only"  no  merit,  but  positive  dis- 
grace, in  giving  up  his  wardenship,  if  he  were  not  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  world  without  it.  Yes;  he  must 
from  this  time  forward  limit  all  his  human  wishes  for 
himself  and  his  daughter  to  the  poor  extent  of  so  lim- 
ited an  income.  He  knew  he  had  not  thought  suffi- 
ciently of  this,  that  he  had  been  carried  away  by  enthu- 
siasm, and  had  hitherto  not  brought  home  to  himself 
the  full  reality  of  his  position. 

He  thought  most  about  his  daughter,  naturally.  It 
was  true  that  she  was  engaged,  and  he  knew  enough 
of  his  proposed  son-in-law  to  be  sure  that  his  own 
altered  circumstances  would  make  no  obstacle  to  such 
a  marriage ;  nay,  he  was  sure  that  the  very  fact  of  his 
poverty  would  induce  Bold  more  anxiously  to  press 
the  matter ;  but  he  disliked  counting  on  Bold  in  this 
emergency,  brought  on,  as  it  had  been,  by  his  doing. 
He  did  not  like  saying  to  himself, — Bold  has  turned 
me  out  of  my  house  and  income,  and  therefore  he 
must  relieve  me  of  my  daughter ;  he  preferred  reckon- 
ing on  Eleanor  as  the  companion  of  his  poverty  and 
exile, — as  the  sharer  of  his  small  income. 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


201 


Some  modest  provision  for  his  daughter  had  been 
long  since  made.  His  hfe  was  insured  for  three  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  this  sum  was  to  go  to  Eleanor.  The 
archdeacon,  for  some  years  past,  had  paid  the  premium, 
and  had  secured  himself  by  the  immediate  possession 
of  a  small  property  which  was  to  have  gone  to  Mrs. 
Grantly  after  her  father's  death.  This  matter,  there- 
fore, had  been  taken  out  of  the  warden's  hands  long 
since,  as,  indeed,  had  all  the  business  transactions  of  his 
family,  and  his  anxiety  was  therefore  confined  to  his 
own  life  income. 

Yes.  A  hundred  and  fifty  per  annum  was  very  small, 
but  still  it  might  suffice.  But  how  was  he  to  chant  the 
litany  at  the  cathedral  on  Sunday  mornings,  and  get 
the  service  done  at  Crab  tree  Parva?  True,  Crab  tree 
Church  was  not  quite  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  cathe- 
dral; but  he  could  not  be  in  two  places  at  once? 
Crabtree  was  a  small  village,  and  afternoon  service 
might  suffice,  but  still  this  went  against  his  conscience. 
It  was  not  right  that  his  parishioners  should  be  robbed 
of  any  of  their  privileges  on  account  of  his  poverty. 
He  might,  to  be  sure,  make  some  arrangements  for 
doing  weekday  service  at  the  cathedral ;  but  he  had 
chanted  the  Htany  at  Barchester  so  long,  and  had  a 
conscious  feeling  that  he  did  it  so  well,  that  he  was 
unwilling  to  give  up  the  duty. 

Thinking  of  such  things,  turning  over  in  his  own 
mind  together  small  desires  and  grave  duties,  but  never 
hesitating  for  a  moment  as  to  the  necessity  of  leaving 
the  hospital,  Mr.  Harding  walked  up  and  down  the 
Abbey,  or  sat  still  meditating  on  the  same  stone  step, 
hour  after  hour.  One  verger  went  and  another  came, 
but  they  did  not  disturb  him.    Every  now  and  then 


202 


THE  WARDEN. 


they  crept  up  and  looked  at  him,  but  they  did  so  with 
a  reverential  stare,  and,  on  the  whole,  Mr.  Harding 
found  his  retreat  well  chosen.  About  four  o'clock  his 
comfort  was  disturbed  by  an  enemy  in  the  shape  of 
hunger.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should  dine,  and  it 
was  clear  that  he  could  not  dine  in  the  Abbey.  So 
he  left  his  sanctuary  not  willingly,  and  betook  him- 
self to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Strand  to  look  for 
food. 

His  eyes  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  gloom 
of  the  church,  that  they  were  dazed  when  he  got  out 
into  the  full  light  of  day,  and  he  felt  confused  and 
ashamed  of  himself,  as  though  people  were  staring  at 
him.  He  hurried  along,  still  in  dread  of  the  archdea- 
con, till  he  came  to  Charing  Cross,  and  then  remem- 
bered that  in  one  of  his  passages  through  the  Strand 
he  had  seen  the  words  "  Chops  and  Steaks  "  on  a  pla- 
card in  a  shop  window.  He  remembered  the  shop  dis- 
tinctly. It  was  next  door  to  a  trunk-seller's,  and  there 
was  a  cigar  shop  on  the  other  side.  He  could  n't  go 
to  his  hotel  for  dinner,  which  to  him  hitherto  was  the 
only  known  mode  of  dining  in  London  at  his  own  ex- 
pense ;  and  therefore  he  would  get  a  steak  at  the  shop 
in  the  Strand.  Archdeacon  Grantly  would  certainly 
not  come  to  such  a  place  for  his  dinner. 

He  found  the  house  easily, — just  as  he  had  observed 
it,  between  the  trunks  and  the  cigars.  He  was  rather 
daunted  by  the  huge  quantity  of  fish  which  he  saw  in 
the  window.  There  were  barrels  of  oysters,  hecatombs 
of  lobsters,  a  few  tremendous-looking  crabs,  and  a  tub 
full  of  pickled  salmon.  Not,  however,  being  aware  of 
any  connection  between  shell-fish  and  iniquity,  he  en- 
tered, and  modestly  asked  a  slatternly  woman,  who 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


203 


was  picking  oysters  out  of  a  great  watery  reservoir, 
whether  he  could  have  a  mutton  chop  and  a  potato. 

The  woman  looked  somewhat  surprised,  but  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  and  a  slipshod  girl  ushered  him  into 
a  long  back  room,  filled  with  boxes  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  parties,  in  one  of  which  he  took  his  seat.  In 
a  more  miserably  forlorn  place  he  could  not  have  found 
himself.  The  room  smelt  of  fish,  and  sawdust,  and 
stale  tobacco  smoke,  with  a  slight  taint  of  escaped  gas. 
Everything  was  rough,  and  dirty,  and  disreputable. 
The  cloth  which  they  put  before  him  was  abominable. 
The  knives  and  forks  were  bruised,  and  hacked,  and 
filthy ;  and  everything  was  impregnated  with  fish.  He 
had  one  comfort,  however.  He  was  quite  alone ;  there 
was  no  one  there  to  look  on  his  dismay ;  nor  was  it 
probable  that  any  one  would  come  to  do  so.  It  was  a 
London  supper-house.  About  one  o'clock  at  night  the 
place  would  be  lively  enough,  but  at  the  present  time 
his  seclusion  was  as  deep  as  it  had  been  in  the  Abbey. 

In  about  half  an  hour  the  untidy  girl,  not  yet  dressed 
for  her  evening  labours,  brought  him  his  chop  and  po- 
tatoes, and  Mr.  Harding  begged  for  a  pint  of  sherry. 
He  was  impressed  with  an  idea,  which  was  generally 
prevalent  a  few  years  since,  and  is  not  yet  wholly  re- 
moved from  the  minds  of  men,  that  to  order  a  dinner 
at  any  kind  of  inn,  without  also  ordering  a  pint  of  wine 
for  the  benefit  of  the  landlord,  was  a  kind  of  fraud ; — 
not  punishable,  indeed,  by  law,  but  not  the  less  abom- 
inable on  that  account.  Mr.  Harding  remembered  his 
coming  poverty,  and  would  willingly  have  saved  his 
half-crown,  but  he  thought  he  had  no  alternative ;  and 
he  was  soon  put  in  possession  of  some  horrid  mixture 
procured  from  the  neighbouring  public-house. 


204 


THE  WARDEN. 


His  chop  and  potatoes,  however,  were  eatable,  and 
having  got  over  as  best  he  might  the  disgust  created 
by  the  knives  and  forks,  he  contrived  to  swallow  his 
dinner.  He  was  not  much  disturbed.  One  young 
man,  with  pale  face  and  watery  fish-like  eyes,  wearing 
his  hat  ominously  on  one  side,  did  come  in  and  stare 
at  him,  and  ask  the  girl,  audibly  enough,  "  Who  that 
old  cock  was;"  but  the  annoyance  went  no  further, 
and  the  warden  was  left  seated  on  his  wooden  bench  in 
peace,  endeavouring  to  distinguish  the  different  scents 
arising  from  lobsters,  oysters,  and  salmon. 

Unknowing  as  Mr.  Harding  was  in  the  ways  of  Lon- 
don, he  felt  that  he  had  somehow  selected  an  ineligi- 
ble dining-house,  and  that  he  had  better  leave  it.  It 
was  hardly  five  o'clock.  How  was  he  to  pass  the  time 
till  ten?  Five  miserable  hours!  He  was  already  tired, 
and  it.  was  impossible  that  he  should  continue  walking 
so  long.  He  thought  of  getting  into  an  omnibus,  and 
going  out  to  Fulham  for  the  sake  of  coming  back  in 
another.  This,  however,  would  be  weary  work,  and 
as  he  paid  his  bill  to  the  woman  in  the  shop,  he  asked 
her  if  there  were  any  place  near  where  he  could  get  a 
cup  of  coffee.  Though  she  did  keep  a  shell-fish  sup- 
per-house, she  was  very  civil,  and  directed  him  to  the 
cigar  divan  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

Mr.  Harding  had  not  a  much  correcter  notion  of  a 
cigar  divan  than  he  had  of  a  London  dinner-house,  but 
he  was  desperately  in  want  of  rest,  and  went  as  he  was 
directed.  He  thought  he  must  have  made  some  mis- 
take when  he  found  himself  in  a  cigar  shop,  but  the 
man  behind  the  counter  saw  immediately  that  he  was 
a  stranger,  and  understood  what  he  wanted.  "  One 
shilling,  sir, — thank  ye,  sir, — cigar,  sir? — ticket  for  cof- 


A  LONG  DAY  IN  LONDON. 


205 


fee,  sir; — you  '11  only  have  to  call  the  waiter.  Up 
those  stairs,  if  you  please,  sir.  Better  take  the  cigar, 
sir, — you  can  always  give  it  to  a  friend,  you  know. 
Well,  sir,  thank  ye,  sir; — as  you  are  so  good,  I  '11 
smoke  it  myself."  And  so  Mr.  Harding  ascended  to 
the  divan,  with  his  ticket  for  coffee,  but  minus  the  cigar. 

The  place  seemed  much  more  suitable  to  his  require- 
ments than  the  room  in  which  he  had  dined.  There 
was,  to  be  siure,  a  strong  smell  of  tobacco,  to  which  he 
was  not  accustomed ;  but  after  the  shell-fish,  the  to- 
bacco did  not  seem  disagreeable.  There  were  quanti- 
ties of  books,  and  long  rows  of  sofas.  What  on  earth 
could  be  more  luxurious  than  a  sofa,  a  book,  and  a  cup 
of  coffee?  An  old  waiter  came  up  to  him,  with  a 
couple  of  magazines  and  an  evening  paper.  Was  ever 
anything  so  civil?  Would  he  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  or 
would  he  prefer  sherbet  ?  Sherbet !  Was  he  absolutely 
in  an  Eastern  divan,  with  the  slight  addition  of  all  the 
London  periodicals?  He  had,  however,  an  idea  that 
sherbet  should  be  drank  sitting  cross-legged,  and  as  he 
was  not  quite  up  to  this,  he  ordered  the  coffee. 

The  coffee  came,  and  was  unexceptionable.  Why, 
this  divan  was  a  paradise !  The  civil  old  waiter  sug- 
gested to  him  a  game  of  chess.  Though  a  chess  player 
he  was  not  equal  to  this,  so  he  declined,  and,  putting 
up  his  weary  legs  on  the  sofa,  leisurely  sipped  his  cof- 
fee, and  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  Blackwood.  He 
might  have  been  so  engaged  for  about  an  hour,  for  the 
old  waiter  enticed  him  to  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  when 
a  musical  clock  began  to  play.  Mr.  Harding  then 
closed  his  magazine,  keeping  his  place  with  his  finger, 
and  lay,  listening  with  closed  eyes  to  the  clock.  Soon 
the  clock  seemed  to  turn  into  a  violoncello,  with  piano 


2o6 


THE  WARDEN. 


accompaniments,  and  Mr.  Harding  began  to  fancy  the 
old  waiter  was  the  Bishop  of  Barchester ;  he  was  inex- 
pressibly shocked  that  the  bishop  should  have  brought 
him  his  coffee  with  his  own  hands ;  then  Dr.  Grantly 
came  in,  with  a  basket  full  of  lobsters,  which  he  would 
not  be  induced  to  leave  downstairs  in  the  kitchen ; 
and  then  the  warden  could  n't  quite  understand  why 
so  many  people  would  smoke  in  the  bishop's  drawing- 
room  ;  and  so  he  fell  fast  asleep,  and  his  dreams  wan- 
dered away  to  his  accustomed  stall  in  Barchester  Ca- 
thedral, and  the  twelve  old  men  he  was  so  soon  about 
to  leave  for  ever. 

He  was  fatigued,  and  slept  soundly  for  some  time. 
Some  sudden  stop  in  the  musical  clock  woke  him  at 
length,  and  he  jumped  up  with  a  start,  surprised  to  find 
the  room  quite  full.  It  had  been  nearly  empty  when 
his  nap  began.  With  nervous  anxiety  he  pulled  out 
his  watch,  and  found  that  it  was  half-past  nine.  He 
seized  his  hat,  and,  hurrying  downstairs,  started  at  a 
rapid  pace  for  Lincoln's  Inn. 

It  still  wanted  twenty  minutes  to  ten  when  the  warden 
found  himself  at  the  bottom  of  Sir  Abraham's  stairs,  so 
he  walked  leisurely  up  and  down  the  quiet  inn  to  cool 
himself.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening  at  the  end  of 
August.  He  had  recovered  from  his  fatigue.  His 
sleep  and  the  coffee  had  refreshed  him,  and  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  he  was  absolutely  enjoying  him- 
self, when  the  inn  clock  struck  ten.  The  sound  was 
hardly  over  before  he  knocked  at  Sir  Abraham's  door, 
and  was  informed  by  the  clerk  who  received  him  that 
the  great  man  v/ould  be  with  him  immediately. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


SIR  ABRAHAM  HAPHAZARD. 

Mr.  Harding  was  shown  into  a  comfortable  inner 
sitting-room,  looking  more  like  a  gentleman's  book- 
room  than  a  lawyer's  chambers,  and  there  waited  for 
Sir  Abraham.  Nor  was  he  kept  waiting  long.  In  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  he  heard  a  clatter  of  voices  speaking 
quickly  in  the  passage,  and  then  the  attorney-general 
entered. 

"  Very  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  Mr.  Warden,"  said 
Sir  Abraham,  shaking  hands  with  him ;  and  sorry, 
too,  to  name  so  disagreeable  an  hour ;  but  your  notice 
was  short,  and  as  you  said  to-day,  I  named  the  very 
earliest  hour  that  was  not  disposed  of." 

Mr.  Harding  assured  him  that  he  was  aware  that  it 
was  he  that  should  apologise. 

Sir  Abraham  was  a  tall  thin  man,  with  hair  prema- 
turely grey,  but  bearing  no  other  sign  of  age.  He  had 
a  sHght  stoop,  in  his  neck  rather  than  his  back,  acquired 
by  his  constant  habit  of  leaning  forward  as  he  addressed 
his  various  audiences.  He  might  be  fifty  years  old, 
and  would  have  looked  young  for  his  age,  had  not  con- 
stant work  hardened  his  features,  and  given  him  the 
appearance  of  a  machine  with  a  mind.  His  face  was 
full  of  intellect,  but  devoid  of  natural  expression.  You 


208 


THE  WARDEN. 


would  say  he  was  a  man  to  use,  and  then  have  done 
with ;  a  man  to  be  sought  for  on  great  emergencies, 
but  ill-adapted  for  ordinary  services ;  a  man  whom  you 
would  ask  to  defend  your  property,  but  to  whom  you 
would  be  sorry  to  confide  your  love.  He  was  bright 
as  a  diamond,  and  as  cutting,  and  also  as  unimpres- 
sionable. He  knew  every  one  whom  to  know  was  an 
honour,  but  he  was  without  a  friend ;  he  wanted  none, 
however,  and  knew  not  the  meaning  of  the  word  in 
other  than  its  parliamentary  sense.  A  friend!  Had 
he  not  always  been  sufficient  to  himself,  and  now,  at 
fifty,  was  it  likely  that  he  should  trust  another?  He 
was  married,  indeed,  and  had  children ;  but  what  time 
had  he  for  the  soft  idleness  of  conjugal  felicity?  His 
working  days  or  term  times  were  occupied  from  his  time 
of  rising  to  the  late  hour  at  which  he  went  to  rest,  and 
even  his  vacations  were  more  full  of  labour  than  the 
busiest  days  of  other  men.  He  never  quarrelled  with 
his  wife,  but  he  never  talked  to  her.  He  never  had 
time  to  talk,  he  was  so  taken  up  with  speaking.  She, 
poor  lady,  was  not  unhappy ;  she  had  all  that  money 
could  give  her,  she  would  probably  live  to  be  a  peer- 
ess, and  she  really  thought  Sir  Abraham  the  best  of 
husbands. 

Sir  Abraham  was  a  man  of  wit,  and  sparkled  among 
the  brightest  at  the  dinner-tables  of  political  grandees. 
Indeed,  he  always  sparkled ;  whether  in  society,  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  or  the  courts  of  law,  coruscations 
flew  from  him ;  glittering  sparkles,  as  from  hot  steel ; 
but  no  heat ;  no  cold  heart  was  ever  cheered  by  warmth 
from  him,  no  unhappy  soul  ever  dropped  a  portion  of 
its  burden  at  his  door. 

With  him  success  alone  was  praiseworthy,  and  he 


SIR  ABRAHAM  HAPHAZARD. 


209 


knew  none  so  successful  as  himself.  No  one  had 
thrust  him  forward ;  no  powerful  friends  had  pushed 
him  along  on  his  road  to  power.  No ;  he  was  attor- 
ney-general, and  would,  in  all  human  probability,  be 
lord  chancellor  by  sheer  dint  of  his  own  industry  and 
his  own  talent.  Who  else  in  all  the  world  rose  so  high 
with  so  little  help?  A  premier,  indeed!  Who  had 
ever  been  premier  without  mighty  friends?  An  arch- 
bishop !  Yes,  the  son  or  grandson  of  a  great  noble,  or 
else,  probably,  his  tutor.  But  he.  Sir  Abraham,  had 
had  no  mighty  lord  at  his  back.  His  father  had  been 
a  country  apothecary,  his  mother  a  farmer's  daughter. 
Why  should  he  respect  any  but  himself?  And  so  he 
glitters  along  through  the  world,  the  brightest  among 
the  bright ;  and  when  his  glitter  is  gone,  and  he  is 
gathered  to  his  fathers,  no  eye  will  be  dim  with  a  tear, 
no  heart  will  mourn  for  its  lost  friend. 

"  And  so,  Mr.  Warden,"  said  Sir  Abraham,  "  all  our 
trouble  about  this  law-suit  is  at  an  end." 

Mr.  Harding  said  he  hoped  so,  but  he  did  n't  at  all 
understand  what  Sir  Abraham  meant.  Sir  Abraham, 
with  all  his  sharpness,  could  hardly  have  looked  into 
his  heart  and  read  his  intentions. 

''All  over.  You  need  trouble  yourself  no  further 
about  it.  Of  course  they  must  pay  the  costs,  and  the 
absolute  expense  to  you  and  Dr.  Grantly  will  be  tri- 
fling ; — that  is,  compared  with  what  it  might  have  been 
if  it  had  been  continued." 

"  I  fear  I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Sir  Abraham." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  their  attorneys  have  noticed 
us  that  they  have  withdrawn  the  suit?  " 

Mr.  Harding  explained  to  the  lawyer  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  this,  although  he  had  heard  in  a  round- 

14 


210 


THE  WARDEN. 


about  way  that  such  an  intention  had  been  talked  of ; 
and  he  also  at  length  succeeded  in  making  Sir  Abra- 
ham understand  that  even  this  did  not  satisfy  him. 
The  attorney-general  stood  up,  put  his  hands  into  his 
breeches'  pockets,  and  raised  his  eyebrows,  as  Mr. 
Harding  proceeded  to  detail  the  grievance  from  which 
he  now  wished  to  rid  himself. 

"  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  trouble  you  personally 
with  this  matter,  but  as  it  is  of  most  vital  importance 
to  me,  as  all  my  happiness  is  concerned  in  it,  I  thought 
I  might  venture  to  seek  your  advice." 

Sir  Abraham  bowed,  and  declared  his  clients  were 
entitled  to  the  best  advice  he  could  give  them ; — ^par- 
ticularly a  client  so  respectable  in  every  way  as  the 
Warden  of  Barchester  Hospital. 

"A  spoken  word.  Sir  Abraham,  is  often  of  more 
value  than  volumes  of  written  advice.  The  truth  is,  I 
am  ill-satisfied  with  this  matter  as  it  stands  at  present. 
I  do  see, — I  cannot  help  seeing,  that  the  affairs  of  the 
hospital  are  not  arranged  according  to  the  will  of  the 
founder." 

"  None  of  such  institutions  are,  Mr.  Harding,  nor 
can  they  be.  The  altered  circumstances  in  which  we 
live  do  not  admit  of  it." 

"  Quite  true, — that  is  quite  true ;  but  I  can't  see 
that  those  altered  circumstances  give  me  a  right  to 
eight  hundred  a  year.  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever 
read  John  Hiram's  will,  but  were  I  to  read  it  now  I 
could  not  understand  it.  What  I  want  you.  Sir  Abra- 
ham, to  tell  me,  is  this ; — am  I,  as  warden,  legally  and 
distinctly  entitled  to  the  proceeds  of  the  property,  after 
the  due  maintenance  of  the  twelve  bedesmen?  " 

Sir  Abraham  declared  that  he  could  n't  exactly  say 


SIR  ABRAHAM  HAPHAZARD. 


211 


in  so  many  words  that  Mr.  Harding  was  legally  enti- 
tled to,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.,  and  ended  in  expressing  a  strong 
opinion  that  it  would  be  madness  to  raise  any  further 
question  on  the  matter,  as  the  suit  was  to  be, — nay, 
was,  abandoned. 

Mr.  Harding,  seated  in  his  chair,  began  to  play  a 
slow  tune  on  an  imaginary  violoncello. 

"  Nay,  my  dear  sir,"  continued  the  attorney-general, 
"  there  is  no  further  ground  for  any  question.  I  don't 
see  that  you  have  the  power  of  raising  it." 

"I  can  resign,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  slowly  playing 
away  with  his  right  hand,  as  though  the  bow  were  be- 
neath the  chair  in  which  he  was  sitting. 

"  What!  throw  it  up  altogether?  "  said  the  attorney- 
general,  gazing  with  utter  astonishment  at  his  cHent. 

"Did  you  see  those  articles  in  the  Jupiter?"  said 
Mr.  Harding,  piteously,  appealing  to  the  sympathy  of 
the  lawyer. 

Sir  Abraham  said  he  had  seen  them.  This  poor  little 
clergyman,  cowed  into  such  an  act  of  extreme  weak- 
ness by  a  newspaper  article,  was  to  Sir  Abraham  so 
contemptible  an  object  that  he  hardly  knew  how  to 
talk  to  him  as  to  a  rational  being. 

"  Had  n't  you  better  wait,"  said  he,  "  till  Dr.  Grantly 
is  in  town  with  you?  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  post- 
pone any  serious  step  till  you  can  consult  with  him?  " 

Mr.  Harding  declared  vehemently  that  he  could  not 
wait,  and  Sir  Abraham  began  seriously  to  doubt  his 
sanity. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  latter,  "  if  you  have  private 
means  sufficient  for  your  wants,  and  if  this  " 

"  I  have  n't  a  sixpence,  Sir  Abraham,"  said  the 
warden. 


212 


THE  WARDEN. 


"God  bless  me!  Why,  Mr.  Harding,  how  do  you 
mean  to  live?  " 

Mr.  Harding  proceeded  to  explain  to  the  man  of 
law  that  he  meant  to  keep  his  precentorship, — that 
was  eighty  pounds  a  year ;  and,  also,  that  he  meant  to 
fall  back  upon  his  own  little  living  of  Crabtree,  which 
was  another  eighty  pounds.  That,  to  be  sure,  the 
duties  of  the  two  were  hardly  compatible ;  but  per- 
haps he  might  effect  an  exchange.  And  then,  recol- 
lecting that  the  attorney-general  would  hardly  care  to 
hear  how  the  service  of  a  cathedral  church  is  divided 
among  the  minor  canons,  stopped  short  in  his  expla- 
nations. 

Sir  Abraham  listened  in  pitying  wonder.  "  I  really 
think,  Mr.  Harding,  you  had  better  wait  for  the  arch- 
deacon. This  is  a  most  serious  step ;  — one  for  which, 
in  my  opinion,  there  is  not  the  shghtest  necessity ;  and, 
as  you  have  done  me  the  honour  of  asking  my  advice, 
I  must  implore  you  to  do  nothing  without  the  approval 
of  your  friends.  A  man  is  never  the  best  judge  of  his 
own  position." 

A  man  is  the  best  judge  of  what  he  feels  himself. 
I 'd  sooner  beg  my  bread  till  my  death  than  read  such 
another  article  as  those  two  that  have  appeared,  and 
feel,  as  I  do,  that  the  writer  has  truth  on  his  side." 

Have  you  not  a  daughter,  Mr.  Harding, — an  un- 
married daughter?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  he,  now  standing  also,  but  still  play- 
ing away  on  his  fiddle  with  his  hand  behind  his  back. 
"  I  have.  Sir  Abraham ;  and  she  and  I  are  completely 
agreed  on  this  subject." 

"  Pray  excuse  me,  Mr.  Harding,  if  what  I  say  seems 
impertinent ;  but  surely  it  is  you  that  should  be  pru- 


SIR  ABRAHAM  HAPHAZARD. 


213 


dent  on  her  behalf.  She  is  young,  and  does  not  know 
the  meaning  of  living  on  an  income  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year.  On  her  account  give  up  this  idea. 
Believe  me,  it  is  sheer  Quixotism." 

The  warden  walked  away  to  the  window,  and  then 
back  to  his  chair;  and  then,  irresolute  what  to  say, 
took  another  turn  to  the  window.  The  attorney-gen- 
eral was  really  extremely  patient,  but  he  was  beginning 
to  think  that  the  interview  had  been  long  enough. 

"  But  if  this  income  be  not  justly  mine,  what  if  she 
and  I  have  both  to  beg?  "  said  the  warden  at  last, 
sharply,  and  in  a  voice  so  different  from  that  he  had 
hitherto  used  that  Sir  Abraham  was  startled.  "  If  so, 
it  would  be  better  to  beg." 

"  My  dear  sir,  nobody  now  questions  its  justness." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Abraham,  one  does  question  it, — the  most 
important  of  all  witnesses  against  me ; — I  question  it 
myself.  My  God  knows  whether  or  no  I  love  my 
daughter ;  but  I  would  sooner  that  she  and  I  should 
both  beg  than  that  she  should  live  in  comfort  on 
money  which  is  truly  the  property  of  the  poor.  It  may 
seem  strange  to  you.  Sir  Abraham,  it  is  strange  to  my- 
self, that  I  should  have  been  ten  years  in  that  happy 
home,  and  not  have  thought  of  these  things,  till  they 
were  so  roughly  dinned  into  my  ears.  I  cannot  boast  of 
my  conscience,  when  it  required  the  violence  of  a  pub- 
lic newspaper  to  awaken  it ;  but,  now  that  it  is  awake, 
I  must  obey  it.  When  I  came  here  I  did  not  know 
that  the  suit  was  withdrawn  by  Mr.  Bold,  and  my  ob- 
ject was  to  beg  you  to  abandon  my  defence.  As  there 
is  no  action,  there  can  be  no  defence.  But  it  is,  at 
any  rate,  as  well  that  you  should  know  that  from  to- 
morrow I  shall  cease  to  be  the  warden  of  the  hospital. 


214 


THE  WARDEN. 


My  friends  and  I  differ  on  this  subject,  Sir  Abraham, 
and  that  adds  much  to  my  sorrow :  but  it  cannot  be 
helped."  And,  as  he  finished  what  he  had  to  say,  he 
played  up  such  a  tune  as  never  before  had  graced  the 
chambers  of  any  attorney-general.  He  was  standing 
up,  gallantly  fronting  Sir  Abraham,  and  his  right  arm 
passed  with  bold  and  rapid  sweeps  before  him,  as 
though  he  were  embracing  some  huge  instrument, 
which  allowed  him  to  stand  thus  erect ;  and  with  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  he  stopped,  with  preternatural 
velocity,  a  multitude  of  strings,  which  ranged  from  the 
top  of  his  collar  to  the  bottom  of  the  lappet  of  his  coat. 
Sir  Abraham  listened  and  looked  in  wonder.  As  he 
had  never  before  seen  Mr.  Harding,  the  meaning  of 
these  wild  gesticulations  was  lost  upon  him;  but  he 
perceived  that  the  gentleman  who  had  a  few  min- 
utes since  been  so  subdued  as  to  be  unable  to  speak 
without  hesitation  was  now  impassioned, — nay,  almost 
violent. 

"  You  '11  sleep  on  this,  Mr.  Harding,  and  to-mor- 
row " 

"  I  have  done  more  than  sleep  upon  it,"  said  the 
warden ;  "  I  have  laid  awake  upon  it,  and  that  night 
after  night.  I  found  I  could  not  sleep  upon  it.  Now 
I  hope  to  do  so." 

The  attorney-general  had  no  answer  to  make  to 
this ;  so  he  expressed  a  quiet  hope  that  whatever  set- 
tlement was  finally  made  would  be  satisfactory ;  and 
Mr.  Harding  withdrew,  thanking  the  great  man  for  his 
kind  attention. 

Mr.  Harding  was  sufficiently  satisfied  with  the  inter- 
view to  feel  a  glow  of  comfort  as  he  descended  into  the 
small  old  square  of  Lincoln's  Inn.    It  was  a  calm, 


SIR  ABRAHAM  HAPHAZARD.  215 

bright,  beautiful  night,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
even  the  chapel  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  the  sombre  row 
of  chambers  which  surround  the  quadrangle,  looked 
well.  He  stood  still  a  moment  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
and  reflect  on  what  he  had  done,  and  was  about  to  do. 
He  knew  that  the  attorney-general  regarded  him  as 
little  better  than  a  fool,  but  that  he  did  not  mind ;  he 
and  the  attorney-general  had  not  much  in  common  be- 
tween them ;  he  knew  also  that  others,  whom  he  did 
care  about,  would  think  so  too ;  but  Eleanor,  he  was 
sure,  would  exult  in  what  he  had  done,  and  the  bishop, 
he  trusted,  would  sympathise  with  him. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  to  meet  the  archdeacon, 
and  so  he  walked  slowly  down  Chancery  Lane  and 
along  Fleet  Street,  feeling  sure  that  his  work  for  the 
night  was  not  yet  over.  When  he  reached  the  hotel 
he  rang  the  bell  quietly,  and  with  a  palpitating  heart. 
He  almost  longed  to  escape  round  the  comer,  and  de- 
lay the  coming  storm  by  a  further  walk  round  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard,  but  he  heard  the  slow  creaking 
shoes  of  the  old  waiter  approaching,  and  he  stood  his 
ground  manfully. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  WARDEN  IS  VERY  OBSTINATE. 

"  Dr.  Grantly  is  here,  sir,"  greeted  his  ears  before 
the  door  was  well  open,  "and  Mrs.  Grantly.  They 
have  a  sitting-room  above,  and  are  waiting  up  for  you." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  man's  voice 
which  seemed  to  indicate  that  even  he  looked  upon 
the  warden  as  a  runaway  schoolboy,  just  recaptured  by 
his  guardian,  and  that  he  pitied  the  culprit,  though  he 
could  not  but  be  horrified  at  the  crime. 

The  warden  endeavoured  to  appear  unconcerned,  as 
he  said,  "  Oh,  indeed !  I  '11  go  upstairs  at  once ; "  but 
he  failed  signally.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  ray  of  com- 
fort in  the  presence  of  his  married  daughter ;  that  is  to 
say,  of  comparative  comfort,  seeing  that  his  son-in-law 
was  there;  but  how  much  would  he  have  preferred 
that  they  should  both  have  been  safe  at  Plumstead 
Episcopi!  However,  upstairs  he  went,  the  waiter 
slowly  preceding  him ;  and  on  the  door  being  opened 
the  archdeacon  was  discovered  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  erect,  indeed,  as  usual,  but  oh!  how  sor- 
rowful! And  on  a  dingy  sofa  behind  him  reclined  his 
patient  wife. 

"Papa,  I  thought  you  were  never  coming  back," 
said  the  lady ;  "  it 's  twelve  o'clock." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  warden.    "  The  attorney- 


THE  WARDEN  IS  VERY  OBSTINATE.  21 7 


general  named  ten  for  my  meeting.  To  be  sure  ten  is 
late,  but  what  could  I  do,  you  know?  Great  men  will 
have  their  own  way." 

And  he  gave  his  daughter  a  kiss,  and  shook  hands 
with  the  doctor,  and  again  tried  to  look  uncon- 
cerned. 

"  And  you  have  absolutely  been  with  the  attorney- 
general?  "  asked  the  archdeacon. 

Mr.  Harding  signified  that  he  had. 

*'  Good  heavens,  how  unfortunate ! "  And  the  arch- 
deacon raised  his  huge  hands  in  the  manner  in  which 
his  friends  are  so  accustomed  to  see  him  express  disap- 
probation and  astonishment.  "  What  will  Sir  Abraham 
think  of  it?  Did  you  not  know  that  it  is  not  custom- 
ary for  clients  to  go  direct  to  their  counsel?  " 

"  Is  n't  it?  "  asked  the  warden,  innocently.  "  Well, 
at  any  rate,  I  Ve  done  it.  Sir  Abraham  did  n't  seem 
to  think  it  so  very  strange." 

The  archdeacon  gave  a  sigh  that  would  have  moved 
a  man-of-war. 

"But,  papa,  what  did  you  say  to  Sir  Abraham?" 
asked  the  lady. 

"  I  asked  him,  my  dear,  to  explain  John  Hiram's  will 
to  me.  He  could  n't  explain  it  in  the  only  way  which 
would  have  satisfied  me,  and  so  I  resigned  the  warden- 
ship." 

"  Resigned  it ! "  said  the  archdeacon,  in  a  solemn 
voice,  sad  and  low,  but  yet  sufficiently  audible ; — a 
sort  of  whisper  that  Macready  would  have  envied,  and 
the  galleries  have  applauded  with  a  couple  of  rounds. 
"  Resigned  it!  Good  heavens! "  And  the  dignitary  of 
the  church  sank  back  horrified  into  a  horse-hair  arm- 
chair. 


2l8 


THE  WARDEN. 


"  At  least  I  told  Sir  Abraham  that  I  would  resign ; 
— and  of  course  I  must  now  do  so." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  archdeacon,  catching  a  ray  of 
hope.  "  Nothing  that  you  say  in  such  a  way  to  your 
own  counsel  can  be  in  any  way  binding  on  you.  Of 
course  you  were  there  to  ask  his  advice.  I 'm  sure, 
Sir  Abraham  did  not  advise  any  such  step." 

Mr.  Harding  could  not  say  that  he  had. 

"  I  am  sure  he  disadvised  you  from  it,"  continued 
the  reverend  cross-examiner. 

Mr.  Harding  could  not  deny  this. 

"  I 'm  sure  Sir  Abraham  must  have  advised  you  to 
consult  your  friends." 

To  this  proposition  also  Mr.  Harding  was  obliged 
to  assent. 

"  Then  your  threat  of  resignation  amounts  to  noth- 
ing, and  we  are  just  where  we  were  before." 

Mr.  Harding  was  now  standing  on  the  rug,  moving 
uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  He  made  no  dis- 
tinct answer  to  the  archdeacon's  last  proposition,  for 
his  mind  was  chiefly  engaged  on  thinking  how  he  could 
escape  to  bed.  That  his  resignation  was  a  thing  finally 
fixed  on,  a  fact  all  but  completed,  was  not  in  his  mind 
a  matter  of  any  doubt.  He  knew  his  own  weakness ; 
he  knew  how  prone  he  was  to  be  led ;  but  he  was  not 
weak  enough  to  give  way  now,  to  go  back  from  the 
position  to  which  his  conscience  had  driven  him,  after 
having  purposely  come  to  London  to  declare  his  de- 
termination. He  did  not  in  the  least  doubt  his  resolu- 
tion, but  he  greatly  doubted  his  power  of  defending  it 
against  his  son-in-law. 

"  You  must  be  very  tired,  Susan,"  said  he :  "would  n't 
you  like  to  go  to  bed?  " 


THE  WARDEN  IS  VERY  OBSTINATE.  2ig 


But  Susan  did  n't  want  to  go  till  her  husband  went. 
She  had  an  idea  that  her  papa  might  be  buUied  if  she 
were  away.  She  was  n't  tired  at  all,  or  at  least  she 
said  so. 

The  archdeacon  was  pacing  the  room,  expressing, 
by  certain  noddles  of  his  head,  his  opinion  of  the  utter 
fatuity  of  his  father-in-law. 

"Why,"  at  last  he  said, — and  angels  might  have 
blushed  at  the  rebuke  expressed  in  his  tone  and  empha- 
sis,— "Why  did  you  go  off  from  Barchester  so  sud- 
denly? Why  did  you  take  such  a  step  without  giving 
us  notice,  after  what  had  passed  at  the  palace?  " 

The  warden  hung  his  head,  and  made  no  reply. 
He  could  not  condescend  to  say  that  he  had  not  in- 
tended to  give  his  son-in-law  the  slip ;  and  as  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  avow  it,  he  said  nothing. 

"  Papa  has  been  too  much  for  you,"  said  the  lady. 

The  archdeacon  took  another  turn,  and  again  ejacu- 
lated, "Good  heavens!" — this  time  in  a  very  low 
whisper,  but  still  audibly. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  to  bed,"  said  the  warden,  taking 
up  a  side  candle. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  '11  promise  me  to  take  no  further 
step  without  consultation,"  said  the  archdeacon.  Mr. 
Harding  made  no  answer,  but  slowly  proceeded  to  hght 
his  candle.  "  Of  course,"  continued  the  other,  "  such 
a  declaration  as  that  you  made  to  Sir  Abraham  means 
nothing.  Come,  warden,  promise  me  this.  The  whole 
affair,  you  see,  is  already  settled,  and  that  with  very 
little  trouble  or  expense.  Bold  has  been  compelled  to 
abandon  his  action,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  remain 
quiet  at  the  hospital."  Mr.  Harding  still  made  no  re- 
ply, but  looked  meekly  into  his  son-in-law's  face.  The 


220 


THE  WARDEN. 


archdeacon  thought  he  knew  his  father-in-law,  but  he 
was  mistaken ;  he  thought  that  he  had  already  talked 
over  a  vacillating  man  to  resign  his  promise.  "  Come, 
said  he,  "  promise  Susan  to  give  up  this  idea  of  resign- 
ing the  wardenship." 

The  warden  looked  at  his  daughter,  thinking  proba- 
bly at  the  moment  that  if  Eleanor  were  contented  with 
him,  he  need  not  so  much  regard  his  other  child,  and 
said,  "  I  am  sure  Susan  will  not  ask  me  to  break  my 
word,  or  to  do  what  I  know  to  be  wrong." 

"Papa,"  said  she,  "it  would  be  madness  in  you  to 
throw  up  your  preferment.    What  are  you  to  live  on?  " 

"  God,  that  feeds  the  young  ravens,  will  take  care 
of  me  also,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  with  a  smile,  as  though 
afraid  of  giving  offence  by  making  his  reference  to 
scriptm-e  too  solemn. 

"  Pish! "  said  the  archdeacon,  turning  away  rapidly. 
*'  If  the  ravens  persisted  in  refusing  the  food  prepared 
for  them,  they  would  n't  be  fed."  A  clergyman  gen- 
erally dislikes  to  be  met  in  argument  by  any  scriptural 
quotation ;  he  feels  as  affronted  as  a  doctor  does,  when 
recommended  by  an  old  woman  to  take  some  favourite 
dose,  or  as  a  lawyer  when  an  unprofessional  man  at- 
tempts to  put  him  down  by  a  quibble. 

"  I  shall  have  the  living  of  Crabtree,"  modestly  sug- 
gested the  warden. 

"  Eighty  pounds  a  year!"  sneered  the  archdeacon. 

"And  the  precentorship,"  said  the  father-in-law. 

"  It  goes  with  the  wardenship,"  said  the  son-in-law. 
Mr.  Harding  was  prepared  to  argue  this  point,  and 
began  to  do  so,  but  Dr.  Grantly  stopped  him.  "  My 
dear  warden,"  said  he,  "  this  is  all  nonsense.  Eighty 
pounds  or  a  hundred  and  sixty  makes  very  little  differ- 


THE  WARDEN  IS  VERY  OBSTINATE.  221 

ence.  You  can't  live  on  it ; — you  can't  ruin  Eleanor's 
prospects  for  ever.  In  point  of  fact,  you  can't  resign. 
The  bishop  would  n't  accept  it.  The  whole  thing  is 
settled.  What  I  now  want  to  do  is  to  prevent  any  in- 
convenient tittle-tattle, — any  more  newspaper  articles." 

"  That 's  what  I  want,  too,"  said  the  warden. 

"And  to  prevent  that,"  continued  the  other,  "we 
must  n't  let  any  talk  of  resignation  get  abroad." 

"  But  I  shall  resign,"  said  the  warden,  very,  very 
meekly. 

"  Good  heavens !  Susan,  my  dear,  what  can  I  say 
to  him?  " 

"  But,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  getting  up,  and  put- 
ting her  arm  through  that  of  her  father,  "  what  is  Elea- 
nor to  do  if  you  throw  away  your  income?  " 

A  hot  tear  stood  in  each  of  the  warden's  eyes  as  he 
looked  round  upon  his  married  daughter.  Why  should 
one  sister  who  was  so  rich  predict  poverty  for  another? 
Some  such  idea  as  this  was  on  his  mind,  but  he  gave 
no  utterance  to  it.  Then  he  thought  of  the  pehcan 
feeding  its  young  with  blood  from  its  own  breast,  but 
he  gave  no  utterance  to  that  either; — and  then  of 
Eleanor  waiting  for  him  at  home,  waiting  to  congrat- 
ulate him  on  the  end  of  all  his  trouble. 

"  Think  of  Eleanor,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  I  do  think  of  her,"  said  her  father. 

"And  you  will  not  do  this  rash  thing?  "  The  lady 
was  really  moved  beyond  her  usual  calm  composure. 

"  It  can  never  be  rash  to  do  right,"  said  he.  "  I  shall 
certainly  resign  this  wardenship." 

"Then,  Mr.  Harding,  there  is  nothing  before  you 
but  ruin,"  said  the  archdeacon,  now  moved  beyond  all 
endurance.    "  Ruin  both  for  you  and  Eleanor.  How 


222 


THE  WARDEN. 


do  you  mean  to  pay  the  monstrous  expenses  of  this 
action?  " 

Mrs.  Grantly  suggested  that,  as  the  action  was  aban- 
doned, the  costs  would  not  be  heavy. 

"  Indeed  they  will,  my  dear,"  continued  he.  "  One 
cannot  have  the  attorney-general  up  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night  for  nothing.  But  of  course  your  father  has 
not  thought  of  this." 

"  I  will  sell  my  furniture,"  said  the  warden. 

"  Furniture! "  ejaculated  the  other,  with  a  most  pow- 
erful sneer. 

"  Come,  archdeacon,"  said  the  lady,  "  we  need  n't 
mind  that  at  present.  You  know  you  never  expected 
papa  to  pay  the  costs." 

"  Such  absurdity  is  enough  to  provoke  Job,"  said  the 
archdeacon,  marching  quickly  up  and  down  the  room. 
Your  father  is  hke  a  child.  Eight  hundred  pounds 
a  year!  — Eight  hundred  and  eighty  with  the  house ; — 
with  nothing  to  do.  The  very  place  for  him.  And  to 
throw  that  up  because  some  scoundrel  writes  an  article 
in  a  newspaper!  Well; — I  have  done  my  duty.  If 
he  chooses  to  ruin  his  child  I  cannot  help  it."  And  he 
stood  still  at  the  fireplace,  and  looked  at  himself  in  a 
dingy  mirror  which  stood  on  the  chimney-piece. 

There  was  a  pause  for  about  a  minute,  and  then  the 
warden,  finding  that  nothing  else  was  coming,  lighted 
his  candle,  and  quietly  said,  "  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  papa,"  said  the  lady. 

And  so  the  warden  retired ;  but,  as  he  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  he  heard  the  well-known  ejaculation, 
— slower,  lower,  more  solemn,  more  ponderous  than 
ever ; — "  Good  heavens! " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 

The  party  met  next  morning  at  breakfast ;  and  a 
very  sombre  affair  it  was ; — very  unlike  the  breakfasts 
at  Plumstead  Episcopi. 

There  were  three  thin,  small,  dry  bits  of  bacon,  each 
an  inch  long,  served  up  under  a  huge  old  plated  cover ; 
there  were  four  three-cornered  bits  of  dry  toast,  and 
four  square  bits  of  buttered  toast ;  there  was  a  loaf  of 
bread,  and  some  oily-looking  butter ;  and  on  the  side- 
board there  were  the  remains  of  a  cold  shoulder  of 
mutton.  The  archdeacon,  however,  had  not  come  up 
from  his  rectory  to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  to  enjoy  him- 
self, and  therefore  nothing  was  said  of  the  scanty  fare. 

The  guests  were  as  sorry  as  the  viands.  Hardly 
anything  was  said  over  the  breakfast-table.  The  arch- 
deacon munched  his  toast  in  ominous  silence,  turning 
over  bitter  thoughts  in  his  deep  mind.  The  warden 
tried  to  talk  to  his  daughter,  and  she  tried  to  answer 
him ;  but  they  both  failed.  There  were  no  feelings  at 
present  in  common  between  them.  The  warden  was 
thinking  only  of  getting  back  to  Barchester,  and  calcu- 
lating whether  the  archdeacon  would  expect  him  to 
wait  for  him ;  and  Mrs.  Grantly  was  preparing  herself 
for  a  grand  attack  which  she  was  to  make  on  her 
father,  as  agreed  upon  between  herself  and  her  husband 
during  their  curtain  confabulation  of  that  morning. 


224 


THE  WARDEN. 


When  the  waiter  had  creaked  out  of  the  room  with 
the  last  of  the  teacups,  the  archdeacon  got  up  and 
went  to  the  window,  as  though  to  admire  the  view. 
The  room  looked  out  on  a  narrow  passage  which  runs 
from  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  to  Paternoster  Row ;  and 
Dr.  Grantly  patiently  perused  the  names  of  the  three 
shopkeepers  whose  doors  were  in  view.  The  warden 
still  kept  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  examined  the  pat- 
tern of  the  table-cloth ;  and  Mrs.  Grantly,  seating  her- 
self on  the  sofa,  began  to  knit. 

After  a  while  the  warden  pulled  his  "  Bradshaw  "  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  began  laboriously  to  consult  it.  There 
was  a  train  for  Barchester  at  lo  A.M.  That  was  out 
of  the  question,  for  it  was  nearly  ten  already.  Another 
at  3  P.M. ;  another,  the  night-mail  train,  at  9  p.m.  The 
three  o'clock  train  would  take  him  home  to  tea,  and 
would  suit  very  well. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  I  think  I  shall  go  back  home 
at  three  o'clock  to-day.  I  shall  get  home  at  half-past 
eight.  I  don't  think  there  *s  anything  to  keep  me  in 
London." 

"The  archdeacon  and  I  return  by  the  early  train 
to-morrow,  papa.  Won't  you  wait  and  go  back  with 
us?" 

"  Why,  Eleanor  will  expect  me  to-night ;  and  I  Ve 
so  much  to  do ;  and  " 

"  Much  to  do ! "  said  the  archdeacon  sotto  voce ; 
but  the  warden  heard  him. 

"  You 'd  better  wait  for  us,  papa." 

"Thank  ye,  my  dear!  I  think  I  '11  go  this  after- 
noon." The  tamest  animal  will  turn  when  driven  too 
hard,  and  even  Mr.  Harding  was  beginning  to  fight  for 
his  own  way. 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 


225 


"  I  suppose  you  won't  be  back  before  three?  "  said 
the  lady,  addressing  her  husband. 

"  I  must  leave  this  at  two,"  said  the  warden. 

"  Quite  out  of  the  question,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
answering  his  wife,  and  still  reading  the  shopkeepers' 
names ;  "  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  back  till  five." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  during  which  Mr. 
Harding  continued  to  study  his  Bradshaw." 

"  I  must  go  to  Cox  and  Cummins,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon at  last. 

"  Oh,  to  Cox  and  Cummins,"  said  the  warden.  It 
was  quite  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him  where  his 
son-in-law  went. 

The  names  of  Cox  and  Cummins  had  now  no  inter- 
est in  his  ears.  What  had  he  to  do  with  Cox  and 
Cummins  further,  having  already  had  his  suit  finally 
adjudicated  upon  in  a  court  of  conscience,  a  judgment 
without  power  of  appeal  fully  registered,  and  the  mat- 
ter settled  so  that  all  the  lawyers  in  London  could  not 
disturb  it.  The  archdeacon  could  go  to  Cox  and 
Cummins,  could  remain  there  all  day  in  anxious  dis- 
cussion ;  but  what  might  be  said  there  was  no  longer 
matter  of  interest  to  him,  who  was  so  soon  to  lay  aside 
the  name  of  Warden  of  Barchester  Hospital. 

The  archdeacon  took  up  his  shining  new  clerical 
hat,  and  put  on  his  black  new  clerical  gloves,  and 
looked  heavy,  respectable,  decorous,  and  opulent,  a 
decided  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  every 
inch  of  him.  "  I  suppose  I  shall  see  you  at  Barchester 
the  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

The  warden  supposed  he  would. 

*'  I  must  once  more  beseech  you  to  take  no  further 
steps  till  you  see  my  father.  If  you  owe  me  nothing," 
IS 


226 


THE  WARDEN. 


and  the  archdeacon  looked  as  though  he  thought  a 
great  deal  were  due  to  him,  "at  least  you  owe  so 
much  to  my  father."  Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Dr. 
Grantly  wended  his  way  to  Cox  and  Cummins. 

Mrs.  Grantly  waited  till  the  last  fall  of  her  husband's 
foot  was  heard,  as  he  turned  out  of  the  court  into  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard,  and  then  commenced  her  task  of 
talking  her  father  over. 

"  Papa,"  she  began,    this  is  a  most  serious  business." 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  said  the  warden,  ringing  the  bell. 

"  I  greatly  feel  the  distress  of  mind  you  must  have 
endured." 

"  I  am  sure  you  do,  my  dear ;" — and  he  ordered  the 
waiter  to  bring  him  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

"  Are  you  going  to  write,  papa?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  I  am  going  to  write  my  resignation 
to  the  bishop." 

"  Pray,  pray,  papa,  put  it  off  till  our  return.  Pray 
put  it  off  till  you  have  seen  the  bishop.    Dear  papa! 

for  my  sake,  for  Eleanor's !  " 

It  is  for  your  sake  and  Eleanor's  that  I  do  this.  I 
hope,  at  least,  that  my  children  may  never  have  to  be 
ashamed  of  their  father." 

"  How  can  you  talk  about  shame,  papa?  "  Then 
she  stopped  while  the  waiter  creaked  in  with  the  paper 
and  slowly  creaked  out  again.  "How  can  you  talk 
about  shame?  You  know  what  all  your  friends  think 
about  this  question." 

The  warden  spread  his  paper  on  the  table,  placing 
it  on  the  meagre  blotting-book  which  the  hotel  afforded, 
and  sat  himself  down  to  write. 

"  You  won't  refuse  me  one  request,  papa?  "  contin- 
ued his  daughter ;  "  you  v/on't  refuse  to  delay  your  let- 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 


227 


ter  for  two  short  days?  Two  days  can  make  no  pos- 
sible difference." 

"  My  dear,"  said  he  naively,  "  if  I  waited  till  I  got 
to  Barchester,  I  might,  perhaps,  be  prevented." 

"But  surely  you  would  not  wish  to  offend  the 
bishop?  "  said  she. 

"  God  forbid !  The  bishop  is  not  apt  to  take  offence, 
and  knows  me  too  well  to  take  in  bad  part  anything 
that  I  may  be  called  on  to  do." 

"  But,  papa  " 

"  Susan,"  said  he,  "  my  mind  on  this  subject  is  made 
up.  It  is  not  without  much  repugnance  that  I  act  in 
opposition  to  the  advice  of  such  men  as  Sir  Abraham 
Haphazard  and  the  archdeacon ;  but  in  this  matter  I 
can  take  no  advice ;  I  cannot  alter  the  resolution  to 
which  I  have  come." 

"  But  two  days,  papa  " 

"  No ; — nor  can  I  delay  it.  You  may  add  to  my 
present  unhappiness  by  pressing  me,  but  you  cannot 
change  my  purpose ;  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  if  you 
will  let  the  matter  rest."  Then,  dipping  his  pen  into 
the  inkstand,  he  fixed  his  eyes  intently  on  the  paper. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  which  taught  his 
daughter  to  perceive  that  he  was  in  earnest.  She  had 
at  one  time  ruled  supreme  in  her  father's  house,  but 
she  knew  that  there  were  moments  when,  mild  and 
meek  as  he  was,  he  would  have  his  way,  and  the  pres- 
ent was  an  occasion  of  the  sort.  She  returned,  there- 
fore, to  her  knitting,  and  very  shortly  after  left  the 
room. 

The  warden  was  now  at  liberty  to  compose  his  let- 
ter, and,  as  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  it  shall  be 
given  at  full  length.    The  official  letter,  which,  when 


228 


THE  WARDEN. 


written,  seemed  to  him  to  be  too  formally  cold  to  be 
sent  alone  to  so  dear  a  friend,  was  accompanied  by  a 
private  note ;  and  both  are  here  inserted. 
The  letter  of  resignation  ran  as  follows: — 

*  Chapter  Hotel,  St.  Paul's, 
'London, — August,  i8 — . 

'  My  Lord  Bishop, 

'  It  is  with  the  greatest  pain  that  I  feel  myself 
'constrained  to  resign  into  your  Lordship's  hands  the 
'  wardenship  of  the  hospital  at  Barchester,  which  you 
'  so  kindly  conferred  upon  me,  now  nearly  twelve  years 

*  since. 

'  I  need  not  explain  the  circumstances  which  have 
'made  this  step  appear  necessary  to  me.    You  are 

*  aware  that  a  question  has  arisen  as  to  the  right  of  the 
'  warden  to  the  income  which  has  been  allotted  to  the 
'  wardenship.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  this  right  is 
'  not  well  made  out,  and  I  hesitate  to  incur  the  risk  of 
'  taking  an  income  to  which  my  legal  claim  appears 
'  doubtful. 

'  The  office  of  precentor  of  the  cathedral  is,  as  your 

*  Lordship  is  aware,  joined  to  that  of  the  warden. 

*  That  is  to  say,  the  precentor  has  for  many  years  been 
'  the  warden  of  the  hospital.  There  is,  however,  noth- 
'  ing  to  make  the  junction  of  the  two  offices  necessary, 
'and,  unless  you  or  the  dean  and  chapter  object  to 
'  such  an  arrangement,  I  would  wish  to  keep  the  pre- 
'centorship.  The  income  of  this  office  will  now  be 
'necessary  to  me.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  why  I 
'  should  be  ashamed  to  say  that  I  should  have  difficulty 
'  in  supporting  myself  without  it. 

'  Your  Lordship,  and  such  others  as  you  may  please 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 


229 


'  to  consult  on  the  matter,  will  at  once  see  that  my  res- 
ignation of  the  wardenship  need  offer  not  the  slight- 
*est  bar  to  its  occupation  by  another  person.  I  am 
'  thought  in  the  wrong  by  all  those  whom  I  have  con- 
'  suited  in  the  matter.    I  have  very  little  but  an  inward 

*  and  an  unguided  conviction  of  my  own  to  bring  me 
'  to  this  step,  and  I  shall,  indeed,  be  hurt  to  find  that 

*  any  slur  is  thrown  on  the  preferment  which  your  kind- 
'  ness  bestowed  on  me,  by  my  resignation  of  it.    I,  at 

*  any  rate  for  one,  shall  look  on  any  successor  whom 
'you  may  appoint  as  enjoying  a  clerical  situation  of 

*  the  highest  respectability,  and  one  to  which  your  Lord- 

*  ship's  nomination  gives  an  indefeasible  right. 

*  I  cannot  finish  this  official  letter  without  again  thank- 

*  ing  your  Lordship  for  all  your  great  kindness,  and  I 
'  beg  to  subscribe  myself 

'  Your  Lordship's  most  obedient  servant, 

'Septimus  Harding, 

*  Warden  of  Barchester  Hospital, 
*  and  Precentor  of  the  cathedral.* 

He  then  wrote  the  following  private  note : — 

'  My  dear  Bishop, 

'  I  cannot  send  you  the  accompanying  official  let- 
'  ter  without  a  warmer  expression  of  thanks  for  all  your 

*  kindness  than  would  befit  a  document  which  may  to 
'  a  certain  degree  be  made  public.  You,  I  know,  will 
'  understand  the  feeling,  and,  perhaps,  pity  the  weak- 

*  ness  which  makes  me  resign  the  hospital.  I  am  not 
'made  of  calibre  strong  enough  to  withstand  public 
'attack.  Were  I  convinced  that  I  stood  on  ground 
'  perfectly  firm,  that  I  was  certainly  justified  in  taking 

*  eight  hundred  a  year  under  Hiram's  will,  I  should  feel 


230 


THE  WARDEN. 


'  bound  by  duty  to  retain  the  position,  however  unen- 
'  durable  might  be  the  nature  of  the  assault ;  but,  as 

*  I  do  not  feel  this  conviction,  I  cannot  beheve  that 

*  you  will  think  me  wrong  in  what  I  am  doing. 

*  I  had  at  one  time  an  idea  of  keeping  only  some 
'  moderate  portion  of  the  income ;  perhaps  three  hun- 
'  dred  a  year,  and  of  remitting  the  remainder  to  the 
'  trustees ;  but  it  occurred  to  me,  and  I  think  with 
'  reason,  that  by  so  doing  I  should  place  my  succes- 
^  sors  in  an  invidious  position,  and  greatly  damage 

*  your  patronage. 

*  My  dear  friend,  let  me  have  a  line  from  you  to  say 
'  that  you  do  not  blame  me  for  what  I  am  doing,  and 
'  that  the  officiating  vicar  of  Crabtree  Parva  will  be  the 
'  same  to  you  as  the  warden  of  the  hospital. 

*  I  am  very  anxious  about  the  precentorship :  the 
'  archdeacon  thinks  it  must  go  with  the  wardenship ;  I 
'  think  not,  and  that,  having  it,  I  cannot  be  ousted.  I 

*  will,  however,  be  guided  by  you  and  the  dean.  No 
'  other  duty  will  suit  me  so  well,  or  come  so  much 
'  within  my  power  of  adequate  performance. 

'  I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  the  preferment  which 
'  I  am  now  giving  up,  and  for  all  your  kindness,  and 

*  am,  dear  bishop,  now  as  always. 

*  Yours  most  affectionately, 

'  Septimus  Harding. 

*  London, — August,  i8 — .' 

Having  written  these  letters  and  made  a  copy  of  the 
former  one  for  the  benefit  of  the  archdeacon,  Mr. 
Harding,  whom  we  must  now  cease  to  call  the  warden, 
— he  having  designated  himself  so  for  the  last  time, — 
found  that  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock,  and  that  he  must 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS.  23 1 

prepare  for  his  journey.  Yes ;  from  this  time  he  never 
again  admitted  the  name  by  which  he  had  been  so 
famiharly  known,  and  in  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
had  rejoiced.  The  love  of  titles  is  common  to  all  men, 
and  a  vicar  or  fellow  is  as  pleased  at  becoming  Mr. 
Archdeacon  or  Mr.  Provost,  as  a  heutenant  at  getting 
his  captaincy,  or  a  city  tallow-chandler  in  becoming 
Sir  John  on  the  occasion  of  a  Queen's  visit  to  a  new 
bridge.  But  warden  he  was  no  longer,  and  the  name 
of  precentor,  though  the  office  was  to  him  so  dear,  con- 
fers in  itself  no  sufficient  distinction.  Our  friend,  there- 
fore, again  became  Mr.  Harding. 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  gone  out ;  he  had,  therefore,  no 
one  to  delay  him  by  further  entreaties  to  postpone  his 
journey ;  he  had  soon  arranged  his  bag,  and  paid  his 
bill,  and,  leaving  a  note  for  his  daughter,  in  which  he 
put  the  copy  of  his  official  letter,  he  got  into  a  cab  and 
drove  away  to  the  station  with  something  of  triumph 
in  his  heart. 

Had  he  not  cause  for  triumph?  Had  he  not  been 
supremely  successful?  Had  he  not  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  held  his  own  purpose  against  that  of  his  son- 
in-law,  and  manfully  combated  against  great  odds, — 
against  the  archdeacon's  wife  as  well  as  the  archdea- 
con ?  Had  he  not  gained  a  great  victory,  and  was  it 
not  fit  that  he  should  step  into  his  cab  with  triumph? 

He  had  not  told  Eleanor  when  he  would  return,  but 
she  was  on  the  lookout  for  him  by  every  train  by  which 
he  could  arrive,  and  the  pony-carriage  was  at  the  Bar- 
chester  station  when  the  train  drew  up  at  the  platform. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  sitting  beside  her,  as  she  steered 
her  little  vessel  to  one  side  of  the  road  to  make  room 
for  the  clattering  omnibuses  as  they  passed  from  the 


232 


THE  WARDEN. 


Station  into  the  town ;  "  I  hope  you  '11  be  able  to  feel 
a  proper  degree  of  respect  for  the  vicar  of  Crabtree." 

"  Dear  papa,"  said  she,  "  I  am  so  glad." 

There  was  great  comfort  in  returning  home  to  that 
pleasant  house,  though  he  was  to  leave  it  so  soon,  and 
in  discussing  with  his  daughter  all  that  he  had  done, 
and  all  that  he  had  to  do.  It  must  take  some  time 
to  get  out  of  one  house  into  another.  The  curate  at 
Crabtree  should  not  be  abolished  under  six  months, 
that  is,  unless  other  provision  could  be  made  for  him ; 
and  then  the  furniture !  The  most  of  that  must  be  sold 
to  pay  Sir  Abraham  Haphazard  for  sitting  up  till  twelve 
at  night.  Mr.  Harding  was  strangely  ignorant  as  to 
lawyers'  bills.  He  had  no  idea,  from  twenty  pounds 
to  two  thousand,  as  to  the  sum  in  which  he  was  in- 
debted for  legal  assistance.  True,  he  had  called  in  no 
lawyer  himself ;  true,  he  had  been  no  consenting  party 
to  the  employment  of  either  Cox  and  Cummins,  or  Sir 
Abraham ;  he  had  never  been  consulted  on  such  mat- 
ters;— the  archdeacon  had  managed  all  this  himself, 
never  for  a  moment  suspecting  that  Mr.  Harding  would 
take  upon  him  to  end  the  matter  in  a  way  of  his  own. 
Had  the  lawyers'  bills  been  ten  thousand  pounds,  Mr. 
Harding  could  not  have  helped  it ;  but  he  was  not  on 
that  account  disposed  to  dispute  his  own  liability.  The 
question  never  occurred  to  him.  But  it  did  occur  to 
him  that  he  had  very  little  money  at  his  banker's,  that 
he  could  receive  nothing  further  from  the  hospital,  and 
that  the  sale  of  the  furniture  was  his  only  resource. 

"  Not  all,  papa,"  said  Eleanor,  pleadingly. 

"  Not  quite  all,  my  dear,"  said  he  ;  that  is,  if  we 
can  help  it.  We  must  have  a  httle  at  Crabtree ; — but 
it  can  only  be  a  little.    We  must  put  a  bold  front  on 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 


it,  Nelly ;  it  is  n't  easy  to  come  down  from  affluence 
to  poverty." 

And  so  they  planned  their  future  mode  of  life ;  the 
father  taking  comfort  from  the  reflection  that  his 
daughter  would  soon  be  freed  from  it,  and  she  resolv- 
ing that  her  father  would  soon  have  in  her  own  house 
a  ready  means  of  escape  from  the  solitude  of  the  Crab- 
tree  vicarage. 

When  the  archdeacon  left  his  wife  and  father-in-law 
at  the  Chapter  Coffee  House  to  go  to  Messrs.  Cox  and 
Cummins,  he  had  no  very  defined  idea  of  what  he  had 
to  do  when  he  got  there.  Gentlemen  when  at  law,  or 
in  any  way  engaged  in  matters  requiring  legal  assist- 
ance, are  very  apt  to  go  to  their  lawyers  without  much 
absolute  necessity.  Gentlemen  when  doing  so,  are  apt 
to  describe  such  attendance  as  quite  compulsory,  and 
very  disagreeable.  The  lawyers,  on  the  other  hand, 
do  not  at  all  see  the  necessity,  though  they  quite  agree 
as  to  the  disagreeable  nature  of  the  visit ; — gentlemen 
when  so  engaged  are  usually  somewhat  gravelled  to 
finding  nothing  to  say  to  their  learned  friends ;  they 
generally  talk  a  little  politics,  a  little  weather,  ask  some 
few  foolish  questions  about  their  suit,  and  then  with- 
draw, having  passed  half  an  hour  in  a  small  dingy 
waiting-room,  in  company  with  some  junior  assistant- 
clerk,  and  ten  minutes  with  the  members  of  the  firm. 
The  business  is  then  over  for  which  the  gentleman  has 
come  up  to  London,  probably  a  distance  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles.  To  be  sure  he  goes  to  the  play,  and 
dines  at  his  friend's  club,  and  has  a  bachelor's  liberty 
and  bachelor's  recreation  for  three  or  four  days ;  and  he 
could  not  probably  plead  the  desire  of  such  gratifica- 
tions as  a  reason  to  his  wife  for  a  trip  to  London. 


234 


THE  WARDEN. 


Married  ladies,  when  your  husbands  find  they  are 
positively  obliged  to  attend  their  legal  advisers,  the 
nature  of  the  duty  to  be  performed  is  generally  of  this 
description. 

The  archdeacon  would  not  have  dreamt  of  leaving 
London  without  going  to  Cox  and  Cummins ;  and  yet 
he  had  nothing  to  say  to  them.  The  game  was  up ; 
he  plainly  saw  that  Mr.  Harding  in  this  matter  was  not 
to  be  moved ;  his  only  remaining  business  on  this  head 
was  to  pay  the  bill  and  have  done  with  it :  and  I  think 
it  may  be  taken  for  granted,  that  whatever  the  cause 
may  be  that  takes  a  gentleman  to  a  lawyer's  chambers, 
he  never  goes  there  to  pay  his  bill. 

Dr.  Grantly,  however,  in  the  eyes  of  Messrs.  Cox 
and  Cummins,  represented  the  spiritualities  of  the  dio- 
cese of  Barchester,  as  Mr.  Chadwick  did  the  temporal- 
ities, and  was,  therefore,  too  great  a  man  to  undergo 
the  half-hour  in  the  clerk^s  room.  It  will  not  be  neces- 
sary that  we  should  listen  to  the  notes  of  sorrow  in 
which  the  archdeacon  bewailed  to  Mr.  Cox  the  weak- 
ness of  his  father-in-law,  and  the  end  of  all  their  hopes 
of  triumph ;  nor  need  we  repeat  the  various  exclama- 
tions of  surprise  with  which  the  mournful  intelligence 
was  received.  No  tragedy  occurred,  though  Mr.  Cox, 
a  short  and  somewhat  bull-necked  man,  was  very  near 
a  fit  of  apoplexy  when  he  first  attempted  to  ejaculate 
that  fatal  word — resign! 

Over  and  over  again  did  Mr.  Cox  attempt  to  en- 
force on  the  archdeacon  the  propriety  of  urging  on  Mr. 
Warden  the  madness  of  the  deed  he  was  about  to  do. 

"  Eight  hundred  a  year!  "  said  Mr.  Cox. 

"  And  nothing  whatever  to  do ! "  said  Mr.  Cummins, 
who  had  joined  the  conference. 


THE  WARDEN  RESIGNS. 


"  No  private  fortune,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Cox. 

"Not  a  shilling,"  said  Mr.  Cummins,  in  a  very  low 
voice,  shaking  his  head. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  case  in  all  my  experience," 
said  Mr.  Cox. 

"  Eight  hundred  a  year,  and  as  nice  a  house  as  any 
gentleman  could  wish  to  hang  up  his  hat  in,"  said  Mr. 
Cummins. 

"  And  an  unmarried  daughter,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Cox,  with  much  moral  seriousness  in  his  tone.  The 
archdeacon  only  sighed  as  each  separate  wail  was  ut- 
tered, and  shook  his  head,  signifying  that  the  fatuity 
of  some  people  was  past  beHef. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  he  might  do,"  said  Mr.  Cum- 
mins, brightening  up.  "  I  '11  tell  you  how  you  might 
save  it.    Let  him  exchange." 

"  Exchange  where?  "  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Exhange  for  a  living.  There 's  Quiverful,  of  Pud- 
dingdale ; — ^he  has  twelve  children,  and  would  be  de- 
lighted to  get  the  hospital.  To  be  sure  Puddingdale 
is  only  four  hundred,  but  that  would  be  saving  some- 
thing out  of  the  fire.  Mr.  Harding  would  have  a 
curate,  and  still  keep  three  hundred  or  three  hundred 
and  fifty." 

The  archdeacon  opened  his  eyes  and  listened.  He 
really  thought  the  scheme  might  do. 

"  The  newspapers,"  continued  Mr.  Cummins,  "  might 
hammer  away  at  Quiverful  every  day  for  the  next  six 
months  without  his  minding  them." 

The  archdeacon  took  up  his  hat,  and  returned  to 
his  hotel,  thinking  the  matter  over  deeply.  At  any 
rate  he  would  sound  Quiverful.  A  man  with  twelve 
children  would  do  much  to  double  his  income. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


FAREWELL. 

On  the  morning  after  Mr.  Harding's  return  home 
he  received  a  note  from  the  bishop  full  of  affection, 
condolence,  and  praise.  "  Pray  come  to  me  at  once," 
wrote  the  bishop,  that  we  may  see  what  had  better 
be  done ;  as  to  the  hospital,  I  will  not  say  a  word  to 
dissuade  you ;  but  I  don't  like  your  going  to  Crabtree. 
At  any  rate,  come  to  me  at  once." 

Mr.  Harding  did  go  to  him  at  once ;  and  long  and 
confidential  was  the  consultation  between  the  two  old 
friends.  There  they  sat  together  the  whole  long  day, 
plotting  to  get  the  better  of  the  archdeacon,  and  to 
carry  out  little  schemes  of  their  own,  which  they  knew 
would  be  opposed  by  the  whole  weight  of  his  authority. 

The  bishop's  first  idea  was,  that  Mr.  Harding,  if  left 
to  himself,  would  certainly  starve, — not  in  the  figura- 
tive sense  in  which  so  many  of  our  ladies  and  gentle- 
men do  starve  on  incomes  from  one  to  five  hundred  a 
year ;  not  that  he  would  be  starved  as  regarded  dress 
coats,  port  wine,  and  pocket-money ;  but  that  he  would 
positively  perish  of  inanition  for  want  of  bread. 

"How  is  a  man  to  live  when  he  gives  up  all  his 
income?  "  said  the  bishop  to  himself.  And  then  the 
good-natured  Httle  man  began  to  consider  how  his 
friend  might  be  best  rescued  from  a  death  so  horrid 
and  painful. 


FAREWELL. 


His  first  proposition  to  Mr.  Harding  was,  that  they 
should  Hve  together  at  the  palace.  He,  the  bishop, 
positively  assured  Mr.  Harding  that  he  wanted  another 
resident  chaplain; — not  a  young,  working  chaplain, 
but  a  steady,  middle-aged  chaplain ;  one  who  would 
dine  and  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him,  talk  about  the 
archdeacon,  and  poke  the  fire.  The  bishop  did  not 
positively  name  all  these  duties,  but  he  gave  Mr.  Hard- 
ing to  understand  that  such  would  be  the  nature  of  the 
service  required. 

It  was  not  without  much  difficulty  that  Mr.  Harding 
made  his  friend  see  that  this  would  not  suit  him ;  that 
he  could  not  throw  up  the  bishop's  preferment,  and 
then  come  and  hang  on  at  the  bishop's  table ;  that  he 
could  not  allow  people  to  say  of  him  that  it  was  an 
easy  matter  to  abandon  his  own  income,  as  he  was  able 
to  sponge  on  that  of  another  person.  He  succeeded, 
however,  in  explaining  that  the  plan  would  not  do,  and 
then  the  bishop  brought  forward  another  which  he  had 
in  his  sleeve.  He,  the  bishop,  had  in  his  will  left  cer- 
tain moneys  to  Mr.  Harding's  two  daughters,  imagin- 
ing that  Mr.  Harding  would  himself  want  no  such  as- 
sistance during  his  own  lifetime.  This  legacy  amounted 
to  three  thousand  pounds  each,  duty  free ;  and  he  now 
pressed  it  as  a  gift  on  his  friend. 

"  The  girls,  you  know,"  said  he,  "  will  have  it  just 
the  same  when  you  're  gone, — and  they  won't  want  it 
sooner, — and  as  for  the  interest  during  my  Hfetime,  it 
is  n't  worth  talking  about.    I  have  more  than  enough." 

With  much  difficulty  and  heartfelt  sorrow,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing refused  also  this  offer.  No ;  his  wish  was  to  sup- 
port himself,  however  poorly ; — not  to  be  supported 
on  the  charity  of  any  one.    It  was  hard  to  make  the 


THE  WARDEN. 


bishop  understand  this ;  it  was  hard  to  make  him  com- 
prehend that  the  only  real  favour  he  could  confer  was 
the  continuation  of  his  independent  friendship.  But 
at  last  even  this  was  done.  At  any  rate,  thought  the 
bishop,  he  will  come  and  dine  with  me  from  time  to 
time,  and  if  he  be  absolutely  starving  I  shall  see  it. 

Touching  the  precentorship,  the  bishop  was  clearly 
of  opinion  that  it  could  be  held  without  the  other  situ- 
ation;— an  opinion  from  which  no  one  differed;  and 
it  was  therefore  soon  settled  among  all  the  parties  con- 
cerned, that  Mr.  Harding  should  still  be  the  precentor 
of  the  cathedral. 

On  the  day  following  Mr.  Harding's  return,  the 
archdeacon  reached  Plumstead  full  of  Mr.  Cummins's 
scheme  regarding  Puddingdale  and  Mr.  Quiverful.  On 
the  very  next  morning  he  drove  over  to  Puddingdale, 
and  obtained  the  full  consent  of  the  wretched  clerical 
Priam,  who  was  endeavouring  to  feed  his  poor  Hecuba 
and  a  dozen  of  Hectors  on  the  small  proceeds  of  his 
ecclesiastical  kingdom.  Mr.  Quiverful  had  no  doubts 
as  to  the  legal  rights  of  the  warden;  his  conscience 
would  be  quite  clear  as  to  accepting  the  income ;  and 
as  to  the  Jupiter,  he  begged  to  assure  the  archdeacon 
that  he  was  quite  indifferent  to  any  emanations  from 
the  profane  portion  of  the  periodical  press. 

Having  so  far  succeeded,  he  next  sounded  the 
bishop ;  but  here  he  was  astonished  by  most  unex- 
pected resistance.  The  bishop  did  not  think  it  would 
do.  "Not  do?  Why  not? '*  and  seeing  that  his  father 
was  not  shaken,  he  repeated  the  question  in  a  severer 
form :  "  Why  not  do,  my  lord?  " 

His  lordship  looked  very  unhappy,  and  shuffled 
about  in  his  chair,  but  still  did  n't  give  way.  He 


FAREWELL. 


thought  Puddingdale  would  n't  do  for  Mr.  Harding ; 
it  was  too  far  from  Barchester. 

"  Oh!  of  course  he  '11  have  a  curate." 

The  bishop  also  thought  that  Mr.  Quiverful  would  n't 
do  for  the  hospital ;  such  an  exchange  would  n't  look 
well  at  such  a  time ;  and,  when  pressed  harder,  he  de- 
clared he  did  n't  think  Mr.  Harding  would  accept  of 
Puddingdale  under  any  circumstances. 

"  How  is  he  to  live?  "  demanded  the  archdeacon. 

The  bishop,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  declared  that  he 
had  not  the  slightest  conception  how  life  was  to  be  sus- 
tained within  him  at  all. 

The  archdeacon  then  left  his  father,  and  went  down 
to  the  hospital ;  but  Mr.  Harding  would  n't  hsten  at 
all  to  the  Puddingdale  scheme.  To  his  eyes  it  had 
no  attraction.  It  savoured  of  simony,  and  was  likely 
to  bring  down  upon  him  harder  and  more  deserved 
strictures  than  any  he  had  yet  received.  He  positively 
declined  to  become  vicar  of  Puddingdale  under  any 
circumstances. 

The  archdeacon  waxed  wroth,  talked  big,  and  looked 
bigger.  He  said  something  about  dependence  and 
beggary,  spoke  of  the  duty  every  man  was  under  to 
earn  his  bread,  made  passing  allusions  to  the  foUies  of 
youth  and  waywardness  of  age,  as  though  Mr.  Harding 
were  afflicted  by  both,  and  ended  by  declaring  that  he 
had  done.  He  felt  that  he  had  left  no  stone  unturned 
to  arrange  matters  on  the  best  and  easiest  footing ;  that 
he  had,  in  fact,  so  arranged  them,  that  he  had  so  man- 
aged that  there  was  no  further  need  of  any  anxiety  in 
the  matter.  And  how  had  he  been  paid?  His  advice 
had  been  systematically  rejected;  he  had  been  not 
only  slighted,  but  distrusted  and  avoided ;  he  and  his 


240 


THE  WARDEN. 


measures  had  been  utterly  thrown  over,  as  had  been 
Sir  Abraham,  who,  he  had  reason  to  know,  was  much 
pained  at  what  had  occurred.  He  now  found  it  was 
useless  to  interfere  any  further,  and  he  should  retire. 
If  any  further  assistance  were  required  from  him,  he 
would  probably  be  called  on,  and  should  be  again 
happy  to  come  forward.  And  so  he  left  the  hospital, 
and  has  not  since  entered  it  from  that  day  to  this. 

And  here  we  must  take  leave  of  Archdeacon  Grantly. 
We  fear  that  he  is  represented  in  these  pages  as  being 
worse  than  he  is;  but  we  have  had  to  do  with  his 
foibles,  and  not  with  his  virtues.  We  have  seen  only 
the  weak  side  of  the  man,  and  have  lacked  the  oppor- 
tunity of  bringing  him  forward  on  his  strong  ground. 
That  he  is  a  man  somewhat  too  fond  of  his  own  way, 
and  not  sufficiently  scrupulous  in  his  manner  of  achiev- 
ing it,  his  best  friends  cannot  deny.  That  he  is  bigoted 
in  favour,  not  so  much  of  his  doctrines  as  of  his  cloth, 
is  also  true.  And  it  is  true  that  the  possession  of  a 
large  income  is  a  desire  that  sits  near  his  heart.  Never- 
theless, the  archdeacon  is  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
conscience.  He  spends  his  money  liberally,  and  does 
the  work  he  has  to  do  with  the  best  of  his  ability.  He 
improves  the  tone  of  society  of  those  among  whom  he 
lives.  His  aspirations  are  of  a  healthy,  if  not  of  the 
highest,  kind.  Though  never  an  austere  man,  he  up- 
holds propriety  of  conduct  both  by  example  and  pre- 
cept. He  is  generous  to  the  poor,  and  hospitable  to 
the  rich ;  in  matters  of  religion  he  is  sincere,  and  yet 
no  Pharisee ;  he  is  in  earnest,  and  yet  no  fanatic.  On 
the  whole,  the  Archdeacon  of  Barchester  is  a  man  do- 
ing more  good  than  harm, — a  man  to  be  furthered  and 
supported,  though  perhaps  also  to  be  controlled ;  and 


FAREWELL. 


241 


it  is  matter  of  regret  to  us  that  the  course  of  our  nar- 
rative has  required  that  we  should  see  more  of  his  weak- 
ness than  his  strength. 

Mr.  Harding  allowed  himself  no  rest  till  everything 
was  prepared  for  his  departure  from  the  hospital.  It 
may  be  as  well  to  mention  that  he  was  not  driven  to 
the  stem  necessity  of  selling  all  his  furniture.  He  had 
been  quite  in  earnest  in  his  intention  to  do  so,  but  it 
was  soon  made  known  to  him  that  the  claims  of  Messrs. 
Cox  and  Cummins  made  no  such  step  obHgatory.  The 
archdeacon  had  thought  it  wise  to  make  use  of  the 
threat  of  the  lawyer's  bill,  to  frighten  his  father-in-law 
into  compliance;  but  he  had  no  intention  to  saddle 
Mr.  Harding  with  costs  which  had  been  incurred  by 
no  means  exclusively  for  his  benefit.  The  amount  of 
the  bill  was  added  to  the  diocesan  account,  and  was, 
in  fact,  paid  out  of  the  bishop's  pocket,  without  any 
consciousness  on  the  part  of  his  lordship.  A  great 
part  of  his  furniture  he  did  resolve  to  sell,  having  no 
other  means  to  dispose  of  it ;  and  the  ponies  and  car- 
riage were  transferred,  by  private  contract,  to  the  use 
of  an  old  maiden  lady  in  the  city. 

For  his  present  use  Mr.  Harding  took  a  lodging  in 
Barchester,  and  thither  were  conveyed  such  articles  as 
he  wanted  for  daily  use, — ^his  music,  books,  and  instru- 
ments, his  own  arm-chair,  and  Eleanor's  pet  sofa ;  her 
teapoy  and  his  cellaret,  and  also  the  slender  but  still 
sufficient  contents  of  his  wine-cellar.  Mrs.  Grantly 
had  much  wished  that  her  sister  would  reside  at  Plum- 
stead  till  her  father's  house  at  Crabtree  should  be  ready 
for  her ;  but  Eleanor  herself  strongly  resisted  this  pro- 
posal. It  was  in  vain  urged  upon  her,  that  a  lady  in 
lodgings  cost  more  than  a  gentleman ;  and  that,  under 
16 


242 


THE  WARDEN. 


her  father's  present  circumstances,  such  an  expense 
should  be  avoided.  Eleanor  had  not  pressed  her  father 
to  give  up  the  hospital  in  order  that  she  might  live  at 
Plumstead  Rectory,  and  he  alone  in  his  Barchester 
lodgings ;  nor  did  Eleanor  think  that  she  would  be 
treating  a  certain  gentleman  very  fairly,  if  she  betook 
herself  to  the  house  which  he  would  be  the  least  desir- 
ous of  entering  of  any  in  the  county.  So  she  got  a 
little  bedroom  for  herself  behind  the  sitting-room,  and 
just  over  the  little  back  parlour  of  the  chemist,  with 
whom  they  were  to  lodge.  There  was  somewhat  of  a 
savour  of  senna  softened  by  peppermint  about  the 
place ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  lodgings  were  clean  and 
comfortable. 

The  day  had  been  fixed  for  the  migration  of  the  ex- 
warden,  and  all  Barchester  were  in  a  state  of  excitement 
on  the  subject.  Opinion  was  much  divided  as  to  the 
propriety  of  Mr.  Harding's  conduct.  The  mercantile 
part  of  the  community,  the  mayor  and  corporation,  and 
council,  also  most  of  the  ladies,  were  loud  in  his  praise. 
Nothing  could  be  more  noble,  nothing  more  generous, 
nothing  more  upright.  But  the  gentry  were  of  a  dif- 
ferent way  of  thinking, — especially  the  lawyers  and  the 
clergymen.  They  said  such  conduct  was  weak  and 
undignified;  that  Mr.  Harding  evinced  a  lamentable 
want  of  esprit  de  corps,  as  well  as  courage ;  and  that 
such  an  abdication  must  do  much  harm,  and  could  do 
but  httle  good. 

On  the  evening  before  he  left,  he  summoned  all  the 
bedesmen  into  his  parlour  to  wish  them  good-bye. 
With  Bunce  he  had  been  in  frequent  communication 
since  his  return  from  London,  and  had  been  at  much 
pains  to  explain  to  the  old  man  the  cause  of  his  resig- 


FAREWELL. 


nation,  without  in  any  way  prejudicing  the  position  of 
his  successor.  The  others,  also,  he  had  seen  more  or 
less  frequently ;  and  had  heard  from  most  of  them  sep- 
arately some  expression  of  regret  at  his  departure ;  but 
he  had  postponed  his  farewell  till  the  last  evening. 

He  now  bade  the  maid  put  wine  and  glasses  on  the 
table ;  and  had  the  chairs  arranged  around  the  room  ; 
and  sent  Bunce  to  each  of  the  men  to  request  they 
would  come  and  say  farewell  to  their  late  warden. 
Soon  the  noise  of  aged  scuffling  feet  was  heard  upon 
the  gravel  and  in  the  little  hall,  and  the  eleven  men 
who  were  enabled  to  leave  their  rooms  were  assembled. 

"  Come  in,  my  friends,  come  in,"  said  the  warden. 
He  was  still  warden  then.  "  Come  in,  and  sit  down 
and  he  took  the  hand  of  Abel  Handy,  who  was  the 
nearest  to  him,  and  led  the  limping  grumbler  to  a  chair. 
The  others  followed  slowly  and  bashfully ;  the  infirm, 
the  lame,  and  the  blind :  poor  wretches !  who  had  been 
so  happy,  had  they  but  known  it!  Now  their  aged 
faces  were  covered  with  shame,  and  every  kind  word 
from  their  master  was  a  coal  of  fire  burning  on  their 
heads. 

When  first  the  news  had  reached  them  that  Mr. 
Harding  was  going  to  leave  the  hospital,  it  had  been 
received  with  a  kind  of  triumph.  His  departure  was, 
as  it  were,  a  prelude  to  success.  He  had  admitted  his 
want  of  right  to  the  money  about  which  they  were  dis- 
puting ;  and  as  it  did  not  belong  to  him,  of  course  it 
did  to  them.  The  one  hundred  a  year  to  each  of  them 
was  actually  becoming  a  reality.  Abel  Handy  was 
a  hero,  and  Bunce  a  faint-hearted  sycophant,  worthy 
neither  honour  nor  fellowship.  But  other  tidings  soon 
made  their  way  into  the  old  men's  rooms.    It  *Yas  first 


244 


THE  WARDEN. 


notified  to  them  that  the  income  abandoned  by  Mr. 
Harding  would  not  come  to  them ;  and  these  accounts 
were  confirmed  by  attorney  Finney.  They  were  then 
informed  that  Mr.  Harding's  place  would  be  at  once 
filled  by  another.  That  the  new  warden  could  not  be 
a  kinder  man  they  all  knew ;  that  he  would  be  a  less 
friendly  one  most  suspected ;  and  then  came  the  bitter 
information  that,  from  the  moment  of  Mr.  Harding's 
departure,  the  twopence  a  day,  his  own  peculiar  gift, 
must  of  necessity  be  withdrawn. 

And  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  all  their  mighty  strug- 
gle,— of  their  fight  for  their  rights, — of  their  petition, 
and  their  debates  and  their  hopes!  They  were  to 
change  the  best  of  masters  for  a  possible  bad  one,  and 
to  lose  twopence  a  day  each  man !  No ;  unfortunate 
as  this  was,  it  was  not  the  worst,  or  nearly  the  worst, 
as  will  just  now  be  seen. 

Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  friends,"  said  the  warden ; 
"  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you,  and  to  drink  your 
healths,  before  I  leave  you.  Come  up  here,  Moody, 
here  is  a  chair  for  you;  come,  Jonathan  Crumple." 
And  by  degrees  he  got  the  men  to  be  seated.  It  was 
not  surprising  that  they  should  hang  back  with  faint 
hearts,  having  returned  so  much  kindness  with  such 
deep  ingratitude.  Last  of  all  of  them  came  Bunce, 
and  with  sorrowful  mien  and  slow  step  got  into  his  ac- 
customed seat  near  the  fireplace. 

When  they  were  all  in  their  places,  Mr.  Harding  rose 
to  address  them ;  and  then  finding  himself  not  quite  at 
home  on  his  legs,  he  sat  down  again.  "  My  dear  old 
friends,"  said  he,  "  you  all  know  that  I  am  going  to 
leave  you." 

There  was  a  sort  of  murmur  ran  round  the  room, 


FAREWELL. 


intended,  perhaps,  to  express  regret  at  his  departure ; 
but  it  was  but  a  murmur,  and  might  have  meant  that 
or  anything  else. 

"  There  has  been  lately  some  misunderstanding  be- 
tween us.  You  have  thought,  I  believe,  that  you  did 
not  get  all  that  you  were  entitled  to,  and  that  the  funds 
of  the  hospital  have  not  been  properly  disposed  of. 
As  for  me,  I  cannot  say  what  should  be  the  disposition 
of  these  moneys,  or  how  they  should  be  managed,  and 
I  have  therefore  thought  it  best  to  go." 

"  We  never  wanted  to  drive  your  reverence  out  of  it," 
said  Handy. 

"  No,  indeed,  your  reverence,"  said  Skulpit.  "  We 
never  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  When  I  signed 
the  petition, — that  is,  I  did  n't  sign  it,  because  " 

"  Let  his  reverence  speak,  can't  you?  "  said  Moody. 

"  No,"  continued  Mr.  Harding ;  "  I  am  sure  you 
did  not  wish  to  turn  me  out ;  but  I  thought  it  best  to 
leave  you.  I  am  not  a  very  good  hand  at  a  lawsuit, 
as  you  may  all  guess ;  and  when  it  seemed  necessary 
that  our  ordinary  quiet  mode  of  living  should  be  dis- 
turbed, I  thought  it  better  to  go.  I  am  neither  angry 
nor  offended  with  any  man  in  the  hospital." 

Here  Bunce  uttered  a  kind  of  groan,  very  clearly 
expressive  of  disagreement. 

"  I  am  neither  angry  nor  displeased  with  any  man 
in  the  hospital,"  repeated  Mr.  Harding,  emphatically. 
"  If  any  man  has  been  wrong, — and  I  don't  say  any 
man  has, — he  has  erred  through  wrong  advice.  In  this 
country  all  are  entitled  to  look  for  their  own  rights, 
and  you  have  done  no  more.  As  long  as  your  inter- 
ests and  my  interests  were  at  variance,  I  could  give 
you  no  counsel  on  this  subject;  but  the  connection 


246 


THE  WARDEN. 


between  us  has  ceased ;  my  income  can  no  longer  de- 
pend on  your  doings,  and  therefore,  as  I  leave  you,  I 
venture  to  offer  to  you  my  advice." 

The  men  all  declared  that  they  would  from  hence- 
forth be  entirely  guided  by  Mr.  Harding's  opinion  in 
their  affairs. 

"  Some  gentleman  will  probably  take  my  place  here 
very  soon,  and  I  strongly  advise  you  to  be  prepared  to 
receive  him  in  a  kindly  spirit,  and  to  raise  no  further 
question  among  yourselves  as  to  the  amount  of  his  in- 
come. Were  you  to  succeed  in  lessening  what  he  has 
to  receive,  you  would  not  increase  your  own  allowance. 
The  surplus  would  not  go  to  you.  Your  wants  are  ad- 
equately provided  for,  and  your  position  could  hardly 
be  improved." 

"  God  bless  your  reverence,  we  knows  it,"  said 
Spriggs. 

"  It 's  all  true,  your  reverence,"  said  Skulpit.  "  We 
sees  it  all  now." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  Bunce,  opening  his  mouth 
for  the  first  time ;  "  I  believe  they  do  understand  it 
now, — now  that  they 've  driven  from  under  the  same 
roof  with  them  such  a  master  as  not  one  of  them  will 
ever  know  again.  Now  that  they  're  like  to  be  in  sore 
want  of  a  friend." 

"  Come,  come,  Bunce,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  blowing  his 
nose,  and  manoeuvring  to  wipe  his  eyes  at  the  same  time. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Handy,  "  we  none  of  us  never 
wanted  to  do  Mr.  Harding  no  harm.  If  he 's  going 
now,  it 's  not  along  of  us ;  and  I  don't  see  for  what 
Mr.  Bunce  speaks  up  agen  us  that  way." 

"  You 've  ruined  yourselves,  and  you 've  ruined  me 
too,  and  that 's  why,"  said  Bunce. 


FAREWELL. 


247 


"Nonsense,  Bunce,"  said  Mr.  Harding;  "there  's 
nobody  ruined  at  all.  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  leave  you 
all  friends.  I  hope  you  '11  all  drink  a  glass  of  wine  in 
friendly  feeling  with  me  and  with  one  another.  You  '11 
have  a  good  friend,  I  don't  doubt,  in  your  new  warden ; 
and  if  ever  you  want  any  other,  why  after  all  I 'm 
not  going  so  far  off  but  that  I  shall  sometimes  see 
you."  Then,  having  finished  his  speech,  Mr.  Harding 
filled  all  the  glasses,  and  himself  handed  each  a  glass 
to  the  men  round  him,  and  raising  his  own,  said, — 

"God  bless  you  all!  you  have  my  heartfelt  wishes 
for  your  welfare.  I  hope  you  may  live  contented,  and 
die  trusting  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  thankful  to 
Almighty  God  for  the  good  things  he  has  given  you. 
God  bless  you,  my  friends!  "  And  Mr.  Harding  drank 
his  wine. 

Another  murmur,  somewhat  more  articulate  than 
the  first,  passed  round  the  circle,  and  this  time  it  was 
intended  to  imply  a  blessing  on  Mr.  Harding.  It  had, 
however,  but  little  cordiality  in  it.  Poor  old  men !  how 
could  they  be  cordial  with  their  sore  consciences  and 
shamed  faces?  how  could  they  bid  God  bless  him 
with  hearty  voices  and  a  true  benison,  knowing,  as 
they  did,  that  their  vile  cabal  had  driven  him  from  his 
happy  home,  and  sent  him  in  his  old  age  to  seek  shel- 
ter under  a  strange  roof-tree?  They  did  their  best, 
however ;  they  drank  their  wine,  and  withdrew. 

As  they  left  the  hall-door,  Mr.  Harding  shook  hands 
with  each  of  the  men,  and  spoke  a  kind  word  to  them 
about  their  individual  cases  and  ailments ;  and  so  they 
departed,  answering  his  questions  in  the  fewest  words, 
and  retreated  to  their  dens,  a  sorrowful  repentant  crew. 

All  but  Bunce,  who  still  remained  to  make  his  own 


248 


THE  WARDEN. 


farewell.  "There  's  poor  old  Bell,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing ;  "I  must  n't  go  without  saying  a  word  to  him ; 
come  through  with  me,  Bunce,  and  bring  the  wine  with 
you ; "  and  so  they  went  through  to  the  men's  cottages, 
and  found  the  old  man  propped  up  as  usual  in  his  bed. 

"  I 've  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  Bell,"  said  Mr. 
Harding,  speaking  loud,  for  the  old  man  was  deaf. 

"  And  are  you  going  away,  then,  really?  "  asked  Bell. 

"  Indeed  I  am,  and  I  've  brought  you  a  glass  of 
wine ;  so  that  we  may  part  friends,  as  we  lived,  you 
know." 

The  old  man  took  the  proffered  glass  in  his  shaking 
hands,  and  drank  it  eagerly.  "  God  bless  you.  Bell! " 
said  Mr.  Harding ;  "  good-bye,  my  old  friend." 

"  And  so  you  're  really  going?  "  the  man  again  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  am,  Bell." 

The  poor  old  bed-ridden  creature  still  kept  Mr. 
Harding's  hand  in  his  own,  and  the  warden  thought 
that  he  had  met  with  something  like  warmth  of  feeling 
in  the  one  of  all  his  subjects  from  whom  it  was  the 
least  likely  to  be  expected  ;  for  poor  old  Bell  had  nearly 
outlived  all  human  feelings.  "  And  your  reverence," 
said  he,  and  then  he  paused,  while  his  old  palsied  head 
shook  horribly,  and  his  shrivelled  cheeks  sank  lower 
within  his  jaws,  and  his  glazy  eye  gleamed  with  a  mo- 
mentary light ;  "  and  your  reverence,  shall  we  get  the 
hundred  a  year,  then?  " 

How  gently  did  Mr.  Harding  try  to  extinguish  the 
false  hope  of  money  which  had  been  so  wretchedly 
raised  to  disturb  the  quiet  of  the  dying  man!  One 
other  week  and  his  mortal  coil  would  be  shuffled  off. 
In  one  short  week  would  God  resume  his  soul,  and  set 
it  apart  for  its  irrevocable  doom.    Seven  more  tedious 


FAREWELL. 


249 


days  and  nights  of  senseless  inactivity,  and  all  would 
be  over  for  poor  Bell  in  this  world.  And  yet,  with 
his  last  audible  words,  he  was  demanding  his  moneyed 
rights,  and  asserting  himself  to  be  the  proper  heir  of 
John  Hiram's  Bounty?  Not  on  him,  poor  sinner  as  he 
was,  be  the  load  of  such  sin! 

Mr.  Harding  returned  to  his  parlour,  meditating  with 
a  sick  heart  on  what  he  had  seen,  and  Bunce  with 
him.  We  will  not  describe  the  parting  of  these  two 
good  men,  for  good  men  they  were.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  late  warden  endeavoured  to  comfort  the  heart 
of  the  old  bedesman.  Poor  old  Bunce  felt  that  his 
days  of  comfort  were  gone.  The  hospital  had  to  him 
been  a  happy  home,  but  it  could  be  so  no  longer.  He 
had  had  honour  there,  and  friendship ;  he  had  recog- 
nised his  master,  and  been  recognised ;  all  his  wants, 
both  of  soul  and  body,  had  been  supplied,  and  he  had 
been  a  happy  man.  He  wept  grievously  as  he  parted 
from  his  friend,  and  the  tears  of  an  old  man  are  bitter. 
"  It  is  all  over  for  me  in  this  world,"  said  he,  as  he 
gave  the  last  squeeze  to  Mr.  Harding's  hand ;  "  I  have 
now  to  forgive  those  who  have  injured  me ; — and  to 
die." 

And  so  the  old  man  went  out,  and  then  Mr.  Hard- 
ing gave  way  to  his  grief  and  wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


CONCLUSION. 

Our  tale  is  now  done,  and  it  only  remains  to  us  to 
collect  the  scattered  threads  of  our  little  story,  and  to 
tie  them  into  a  seemly  knot.  This  will  not  be  a  work 
of  labour,  either  to  the  author  or  to  his  readers.  We 
have  not  to  deal  with  many  personages,  or  with  stirring 
events,  and  were  it  not  for  the  custom  of  the  thing,  we 
might  leave  it  to  the  imagination  of  all  concerned  to 
conceive  how  affairs  at  Barchester  arranged  themselves. 

On  the  morning  after  the  day  last  alluded  to,  Mr. 
Harding,  at  an  early  hour,  walked  out  of  the  hospital, 
with  his  daughter  under  his  arm,  and  sat  down  quietly 
to  breakfast  at  his  lodgings  over  the  chemist's  shop. 
There  was  no  parade  about  his  departure ;  no  one,  not 
even  Bunce,  was  there  to  witness  it ;  had  he  walked 
to  the  apothecary's  thus  early  to  get  a  piece  of  court 
plaster,  or  a  box  of  lozenges,  he  could  not  have  done 
it  with  less  appearance  of  an  important  movement. 
There  was  a  tear  in  Eleanor's  eye  as  she  passed  through 
the  big  gateway  and  over  the  bridge ;  but  Mr.  Hard- 
ing walked  with  an  elastic  step,  and  entered  his  new 
abode  with  a  pleasant  face. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  you  have  everything 
ready,  and  you  can  make  tea  here  just  as  nicely  as  in 
the  parlour  at  the  hospital."    So  Eleanor  took  off  her 


CONCLUSION. 


bonnet  and  made  the  tea.  After  this  manner  did  the 
late  Warden  of  Barchester  Hospital  accomplish  his  flit- 
ting, and  change  his  residence. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  archdeacon  brought  his 
father  to  discuss  the  subject  of  a  new  warden.  Of 
course  he  looked  upon  the  nomination  as  his  own,  and 
he  had  in  his  eye  three  or  four  fitting  candidates,  see- 
ing that  Mr.  Cummins's  plan  as  to  the  Hving  of  Pud- 
dingdale  could  not  be  brought  to  bear.  How  can  I 
describe  the  astonishment  which  confounded  him,  when 
his  father  declared  that  he  would  appoint  no  successor 
to  Mr.  Harding?  If  we  can  get  the  matter  set  to 
rights,  Mr.  Harding  will  return,"  said  the  bishop; 
"  and  if  we  cannot,  it  will  be  wrong  to  put  any  other 
gentleman  into  so  cruel  a  position." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  archdeacon  argued  and  lec- 
tured, and  even  threatened ;  in  vain  he  my-lorded  his 
poor  father  in  his  sternest  manner;  in  vain  his  ''good 
heavens!"  were  ejaculated  in  at  one  that  might  have 
moved  a  whole  synod,  let  alone  one  weak  and  aged 
bishop.  Nothing  could  induce  his  father  to  fill  up  the 
vacancy  caused  by  Mr.  Harding's  retirement. 

Even  John  Bold  would  have  pitied  the  feelings  with 
which  the  archdeacon  returned  to  Plumstead.  The 
church  was  falling,  nay,  already  in  ruins ;  its  dignitaries 
were  yielding  without  a  struggle  before  the  blows  of 
its  antagonists ;  and  one  of  its  most  respected  bishops, 
his  own  father, — the  man  considered  by  all  the  world 
as  being  in  such  matters  under  his,  Dr.  Grantly's  con- 
trol,— had  positively  resolved  to  capitulate,  and  own 
himself  vanquished! 

And  how  fared  the  hospital  under  this  resolve  of  its 
visitor?    Badly  indeed.    It  was  now  some  years  since 


252 


THE  WARDEN. 


Mr.  Harding  left  it,  and  the  warden's  house  is  still 
tenantless.  Old  Bell  has  died,  and  Bill  Gazy;  the 
one-eyed  Spriggs  has  drunk  himself  to  death,  and  three 
others  of  the  twelve  have  been  gathered  into  the  church- 
yard mould.  Six  have  gone,  and  the  six  vacancies  re- 
main unfilled !  Yes,  six  have  died,  with  no  kind  friend 
to  solace  their  last  moments,  with  no  wealthy  neigh- 
bour to  administer  comforts  and  ease  the  stings  of 
death.  Mr.  Harding,  indeed,  did  not  desert  them ; 
from  him  they  had  such  consolation  as  a  dying  man 
may  receive  from  his  Christian  pastor ;  but  it  was  the 
occasional  kindness  of  a  stranger  which  ministered  to 
them,  and  not  the  constant  presence  of  a  master,  a 
neighbour,  and  a  friend. 

Nor  were  those  who  remained  better  off  than  those 
who  died.  Dissensions  rose  among  them,  and  contests 
for  pre-eminence ;  and  then  they  began  to  understand 
that  soon  one  among  them  would  be  the  last, — some 
one  wretched  being  would  be  alone  there  in  that  now 
comfortless  hospital, — the  miserable  rehc  of  what  had 
once  been  so  good  and  so  comfortable. 

The  building  of  the  hospital  itself  has  not  been 
allowed  to  go  to  ruins.  Mr.  Chadwick,  who  still  holds 
his  stewardship,  and  pays  the  accruing  rents  into  an 
account  opened  at  a  bank  for  the  purpose,  sees  to  that ; 
but  the  whole  place  has  become  disordered  and  ugly. 
The  warden's  garden  is  a  wretched  wilderness,  the 
drive  and  paths  are  covered  with  weeds,  the  flower- 
beds are  bare,  and  the  unshorn  lawn  is  now  a  mass  of 
long  damp  grass  and  unwholesome  moss.  The  beauty 
of  the  place  is  gone;  its  attractions  have  withered. 
Alas !  a  very  few  years  since  it  was  the  prettiest  spot  in 
Barchester,  and  now  it  is  a  disgrace  to  the  city. 


CONCLUSION. 


Mr.  Harding  did  not  go  out  to  Crabtree  Parva. 
An  arrangement  was  made  which  respected  the  home- 
stead of  Mr.  Smith  and  his  happy  family,  and  put  Mr. 
Harding  into  possession  of  a  small  living  within  the 
walls  of  the  city.  It  is  the  smallest  possible  parish, 
containing  a  part  of  the  Cathedral  Close  and  a  few 
old  houses  adjoining.  The  church  is  a  singular  little 
Gothic  building,  perched  over  a  gateway,  through 
which  the  Close  is  entered,  and  is  approached  by  a 
flight  of  stone  steps  which  leads  down  under  the  arch- 
way of  the  gate.  It  is  no  bigger  than  an  ordinary 
room, — perhaps  twenty-seven  feet  long  by  eighteen 
wide, — but  still  it  is  a  perfect  church.  It  contains  an 
old  carved  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  a  tiny  altar  under 
a  window  filled  with  dark  old-coloured  glass,  a  font, 
some  half-dozen  pews,  and  perhaps  a  dozen  seats  for 
the  poor ;  and  also  a  vestry.  The  roof  is  high-pitched, 
and  of  black  old  oak,  and  the  three  large  beams  which 
support  it  run  down  to  the  side  walls,  and  terminate 
in  grotesquely  carved  faces, — two  devils  and  an  angel 
on  one  side,  two  angels  and  a  devil  on  the  other.  .  Such 
is  the  church  of  St.  Cuthbert  at  Barchester,  of  which 
Mr.  Harding  became  rector,  with  a  clear  income  of 
seventy-five  pounds  a  year. 

Here  he  performs  afternoon  service  every  Sunday, 
and  administers  the  Sacrament  once  in  every  three 
months.  His  audience  is  not  large;  and,  had  they 
been  so,  he  could  not  have  accommodated  them.  But 
enough  come  to  fill  his  six  pews,  and,  on  the  front  seat 
of  those  devoted  to  the  poor  is  always  to  be  seen  our 
old  friend  Mr.  Bunce,  decently  arrayed  in  his  bedes- 
man's gown. 

Mr.  Harding  is  still  precentor  of  Barchester ;  and  it 


254 


THE  WARDEN. 


is  very  rarely  the  case  that  those  who  attend  the  Sun- 
day morning  service  miss  the  gratification  of  hearing 
him  chant  the  Litany,  as  no  other  man  in  England  can 
do  it.  He  is  neither  a  discontented  nor  an  unhappy 
man.  He  still  inhabits  the  lodgings  to  which  he  went 
on  leaving  the  hospital,  but  he  now  has  them  to  him- 
self. Three  months  after  that  time  Eleanor  became 
Mrs.  Bold,  and  of  course  removed  to  her  husband's 
house. 

There  were  some  difficulties  to  be  got  over  on  the 
occasion  of  the  marriage.  The  archdeacon,  who  could 
not  so  soon  overcome  his  grief,  would  not  be  persuaded 
to  grace  the  ceremony  with  his  presence,  but  he  allowed 
his  wife  and  children  to  be  there.  The  marriage  took 
place  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  bishop  himself  offici- 
ated. It  was  the  last  occasion  on  which  he  ever  did 
so ;  and,  though  he  still  lives,  it  is  not  probable  that 
he  will  ever  do  so  again. 

Not  long  after  the  marriage,  perhaps  six  months, 
when  Eleanor's  bridal-honours  were  fading,  and  per- 
sons were  beginning  to  call  her  Mrs.  Bold  without 
twittering,  the  archdeacon  consented  to  meet  John 
Bold  at  a  dinner-party,  and  since  that  time  they  have 
become  almost  friends.  The  archdeacon  firmly  be- 
lieves that  his  brother-in-law  was,  as  a  bachelor,  an  in- 
fidel, an  unbeliever  in  the  great  truths  of  our  religion ; 
but  that  matrimony  has  opened  his  eyes,  as  it  has  those 
of  others.  And  Bold  is  equally  inclined  to  think  that 
time  has  softened  the  asperities  of  the  archdeacon's 
character.  Friends  though  they  are,  they  do  not  often 
revert  to  the  feud  of  the  hospital. 

Mr.  Harding,  we  say,  is  not  an  unhappy  man.  He 
keeps  his  lodgings,  but  they  are  of  little  use  to  him,  ex- 


CONCLUSION. 


cept  as  being  the  one  spot  on  earth  which  he  calls  his 
own.  His  time  is  spent  chiefly  at  his  daughter's  or  at 
the  palace ;  he  is  never  left  alone,  even  should  he  wish 
to  be  so ;  and  within  a  twelvemonth  of  Eleanor's  mar- 
riage his  determination  to  live  at  his  own  lodging  had 
been  so  far  broken  through  and  abandoned  that  he  con- 
sented to  have  his  violoncello  permanently  removed  to 
his  daughter's  house. 

Every  other  day  a  message  is  brought  to  him  from 
the  bishop.  "  The  bishop's  compliments,  and  his  lord- 
ship is  not  very  well  to-day,  and  he  hopes  Mr.  Harding 
will  dine  with  him."  This  bulletin  as  to  the  old  man's 
health  is  a  myth;  for  -  though  he  is  over  eighty  he  is 
never  ill,  and  will  probably  die  some  day,  as  a  spark 
goes  out,  gradually  and  without  a  struggle.  Mr.  Hard- 
ing does  dine  with  him  very  often,  which  means  going 
to  the  palace  at  three  and  remaining  till  ten;  and 
whenever  he  does  not  the  bishop  whines,  and  says  that 
the  port  wine  is  corked,  and  complains  that  nobody 
attends  to  him,  and  frets  himself  off  to  bed  an  hour 
before  his  tiipe. 

It  was  long  before  the  people  of  Barchester  forgot 
to  call  Mr.  Harding  by  his  long  well-known  name  of 
Warden.  It  had  become  so  customary  to  say  Mr. 
Warden  that  it  was  not  easily  dropped.  "  No,  no," 
he  always  says  when  so  addressed,  "  not  warden  now, 
only  precentor." 


0^  (<r 


7o_ 


